


I Don't Know If You Know

by chrislink



Series: To You Alone [2]
Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Healing, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28033374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrislink/pseuds/chrislink
Summary: His chest does a strange thing then, an almost painful squeeze, so brief it’s gone before he's realised what happened, not sure he dreamt it but for the hollow print that it leaves.
Relationships: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Series: To You Alone [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830808
Comments: 62
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

_You took all the lonely days, and you made them sing_

Oslo has been hit with an unusually mild, almost warm weather lately, and it’s easy to interpret the unexpected heat as an omen of sorts, if you’re the kind of person who sees signs in everything.

Even’s not like that, and yet. Yet.

Moving out shouldn’t feel so liberating. However, after all this time, after months of uncertainty and tension, it does. He tries not to feel guilty about it, to convince himself it’s not a step back, just a pause. A little detour at worst. And maybe, just maybe, he could use another one of those.

Truth is, when he first made that decision, anxiety and fear had threatened to consume him entirely and pull in back in the very comfort of the routine he’d been trying to escape. Except there wasn’t much comfort in that any more, but deep seated doubt and terror asking the same question over and over again: is this it?

The “what am I going to do now?” echoing in his brain was met with only vague plans and indistinct ideas. Upending his whole life seemed such an impossibly terrifying task that he briefly questioned his own sanity. Not that that was anything new.

It didn’t help that, after his last episode – which had been one of the worst to date – everybody else was questioning it too. Actually, they weren’t, not really, but that’s how it had felt like at first.

His parents knew. They’d taken a look at him and instantly understood, reached the same conclusion he had when he’d finally got out of bed. And really, it had just been a matter of time.

It took a few weeks to say the words out loud, after the idea had lodged itself in his mind. °That fear gripping him with deceptively strong fingers – it wouldn’t let go. The idea that it had all come to this, that it was, in a way, the end of everything.

It hadn’t been, and it had taken a longer while, long talks with his parents, his therapist and finally, Sonja, to get him to realise that it wasn’t the end of everything. Just the end of them.

Sonja had seen it coming long before him, hence the tears and the anger, the deflecting and the distracting. She’d clung to the idea of them as desperately as they had once loved each other. In the end, neither of them had been able to fend off the inevitable: they didn’t love each other any more. It had gone, not in a bang, but with a barely perceptible whisper and that might be what hurt the most then, that their love story didn’t get the perfect, grand, and mandatory tragic ending all love stories should have. Worst of all, it didn’t last forever.

So on a bright early June morning, his parents came to help him get the last of his things, and then came the awkward, and slightly teary goodbyes. Sonja tried very hard to plaster a smile and her face, determined not to let him see mascara streaked cheeks. They hugged, promised to call each other, eventually. He’s not sure he’ll ever do it, but swears to at least consider it, somewhere down the line, when the pain of her absence and their failure eventually fades into a dull ache.

The first few hours back at home with his parents have been strange, there are no other words for it. Of course he visits them regularly, so it’s not that their house or having them around is unfamiliar to him. His own room has remained mostly unchanged throughout the past few years save for a couple of posters here and there.

But he hasn’t quite been able to shake the odd feeling of emptiness slowly worming its way in his gut. It’s a not entirely unpleasant stark contrast to the overwhelming pressure that had been crushing him for the past few months. He’s had a harder time than he thought he’d have adjusting to his career choice, despite being pretty much done with his bachelor’s and about to start his master’s. And then everything with Sonja suddenly went from safe and comforting to stifling and terrifying in the blink of an eye.

He supposes no one was surprised when his last episode hit him with a force he hadn’t felt since high school. For days on end, he stayed curled up in bed, body and mind both weighted down by the emptiness devouring his whole being. He felt too much at first, lights too bright, whispers as loud as shouts, his brain bubbling with untamed energy. Until it all went away instantaneously, like a carpet being pulled from under his feet. Then, he felt nothing at all. Colours went away, melting into a dull grey static, taking hopes and happiness with it. Shattered illusions left the unforgiving truth there in the open, inescapable. Being awake became pure torture, and breathing alone seemed like an unsurmountable obstacle. More than once, he let his mind wander into old, familiar thoughts, almost hoping the world would leave him.

Those weeks left a bad aftertaste that lingered for longer than he would have expected. But with gentle coaxing from his parents, his therapist and his friends, he eventually recovered. He and Sonja had a long talk, the longest they’d ever had, while his parents went around and helped him fix everything and get the money back from the jewellery shop.

His mum didn’t say anything when got home that day. She smiled, a little sad, before gathering him in her arms, letting him cling to her as he finally let the tears fall. He cried for hours then, for everything that could have been but wasn’t, letting the tears take out everything he’d kept in until there was nothing left, just a black, bottomless hole.

Little by little, he rearranged the pieces of himself that he had kept, to become not quite something new, but slightly different at least. Even without Sonja. Just Even. The boys were a tremendous help, despite some undefinable tension remaining between him and Mikael.

And finally, about a week after his last exam, it’s Yousef who finally brings up the idea.

“Do you have plans for next year? Thinking of getting a place of your own?”

That’s the whole crux of it, right there. What is he going to do? He’s been asking himself that question over and over, staring unseeingly at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom every night, trying to find some sleep, trying to find answers.

“I don’t know.”

He hesitates, still fears the judgement in his friends’ eyes when he voices the conclusion he’s reached after those long hours of introspection. He hasn’t told his parents yet, although there is a good chance they know already. They know him better than he knows himself, which is only slightly scary.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to live alone just yet.”

He wishes he didn’t feel so relieved when he sees nothing but understanding on his friends’ faces, hopes it doesn’t show and chastises himself for thinking so little of them after all this time. He hates those moments when he has to remind himself that nothing has changed between them, despite those two years apart. It’s silly, really. They’ve been supportive of him, probably even more than before, and have made a point to keep things as light hearted as possible.

Yet, there are days when that big, invisible elephant in the room gets too tangible for him to ignore.

“You could get a pet. Like a cat, or a dog. Or a hamster.” offers Mutta with genuine enthusiasm.

“Or a snake. Snakes are cool.” remarks Adam. “There’s this French dude on insta, he’s got a really big one.”

A few seconds of silence tick by, the five of them staring incredulously at their friend. Elias is the first one who bursts out laughing, the others following straight after.

“Dude!” exclaims Elias, wiping tears of laughter.

“Enjoying big French snakes, Adam. Are you trying to tell us something?” adds Even.

He shakes his head, face a little red and rolls his eyes at them.

“You guys suck.”

He’s met with another round of laughter. Somewhere deep within Even, a knot he didn’t know was there loosens just a little at the sound of his best friends’ snorts. They laugh a bit longer, trade barbs and shove each other jokingly under the watchful eye of Jens, the silver-haired owner of that small coffee shop they long ago chose as their meeting spot. It helps that Jens makes one of the best hot cacao drinks in the city.

“No but seriously, Ev,” says Yousef, after a while, “You could put up an ad that says you’re looking to share a flat.”

Even stretches lazily and nods, not at all surprised that Yousef, the most mature of their little gang, is once again on par with his own thoughts. He’s also extremely grateful that none of them offer themselves as possible flatmate candidates.

Obviously, that relief is short lived when they all part and Mikael falls in step with him. They both stay silent for a while, which is a sign that his best friend has something on his mind that he doesn’t dare bring up. How did they get to that point, when they both have stopped being able to share freely what they though, wary of the other’s reaction? It’s not hard to guess what Mikael wants to say, but Even isn’t ready to take the first step, so he waits, and waits.

“Ev?”

Mikael’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. He’s eyeing him carefully, apprehension clear on his face, lips pulled into a fraction of a pout. A familiar pinch in his heart reminds him of the intense, all encompassing love he had felt for his best friend years ago.

“Yeah?”

A warm summer breeze is gently making strands of silky dark hair dance on the smooth face of this man, who not so long ago was the single most important person in his life. Now it feels like the chasm between them has never been wider.

“We’re okay, right?”

There’s a small, tentative smile stretching Mikael’s lips, an even smaller flicker of hope in his eyes, not quite fully concealing the shadow of self doubt cast by an unidentified tension they haven’t been able to shake.

For some reason, he’s certain that this question is not the one Mikael wants to ask, but is the one he’s settled on, desperately trying not to make a wave that would threaten the fragile raft of their friendship.

He’d like to say he’s the brave one, that he’s not afraid to call out his friend on this little white lie, but he’s not. In the end, all he does is plaster a smile, as fake as it is forced and exclaims:

“Of course!”

Mikael probably doesn’t buy it, at least not completely. But neither of them is ready to push the issue, so they let it go, for now, probably both secretly hoping that it won’t come to haunt them later on.

That night, he has a long conversation with his parents, they weight the pros and cons, draw up a battle plan and various scenarios, many of them outlandish and more than a little optimistic.

He puts an ad up in one of the main hall at uni the following day. The call he gets, only a few hours later, is not one he expects.

  
  


  
  


Eskild is in love, that much is clear to see. Ever since he met Ren last year, he’s been different. Not in a big obvious way, he’s still unchanged in all the ways that matter. Nosey, and brash, and irritating. But Isak is a lot more observant than people give him credit for. His smiles are different, for one. Less mocking and cynical, more fond and thoughtful. Freer, in a way.

He’s also having more than a healthy dose of sex. Which, in Isak’s humble and not at all professional opinion, is a lot.

So when Eskild knocks on his door with an exaggerated smile and a “ _hey little buddy_ ”, he has a pretty decent idea of what’s coming, and he’s guessing Linn does too as she follows him in and drags herself onto his bed, cuddles up against him without a word. He leans into her ever so slightly, enough to feel her warmth settle his anxiety a little, not enough to be too obvious about it.

Her hair tickles his neck, and he feels her sigh of contentment down to his bones. They’re in this together, bracing themselves for the inevitable blow Eskild is about to deliver.

The older man crosses his arms, looks at them with almost disgusting fondness. Although he’ll never admit it, he secretly loves it, but hates that this might be one of the last times he gets to be on the receiving end of this particular look.

“What do you want, Eskild?” he huffs grumpily, before the tension in the room becomes unbearable.

“Patience, Baby J, or have I taught you no manners, in all these years. I swear it feels like dealing with an overgrown sulky teenager sometime and...”

“Eskild!” he hedges.

He knows what his friend is trying to do, knows him too well to ignore the distraction tactic. It effectively shuts him up, his shoulder sag a little and his smile disappears.

“I...”

He cuts himself off. Isak desperately wants to help him, tell him he knows already. But he’s aware that it’s something Eskild needs to voice, for their sake.

“I have something to tell you.”

They wait, a lot more patient than usual. Against him, Linn’s body has grown tenser. He squeezes her hand, desperate to anchor the both of them in each other’s presence. She’s wearing a thick, almost colourless jumper that is way too big for her, and definitely his.

Eskild gulps audibly, all confidence gone. The conflict in his mind all too evident in his shining eyes.

“Ren asked me to move in with him. And I said yes.”

It’s one thing to know, and quite another to have it confirmed as a cold hard truth, he supposes. He knows, in his heart of hearts, that this was always going to end this way, that their little bubble was only ever meant to last a few years. Oh how he wishes he could keep the safe, warm cocoon it has provided him for just a little longer.

But Eskild has given him everything, without a second thought, without hesitation. He owes him more than he could ever put into words.

So this, he can do. He can be happy for him and show him how glad he is.

He carefully disentangles himself from Linn and walks up to the older man, gathers him in his arms, and holds him tight. It takes a few second for Eskild to react, and Isak doesn’t begrudge him. He’s obviously not used to his youngest flatmate showing him open affection without being coerced into it. But eventually, his arms come up around him.

Linn joins them barely a minute after and they stay like this, in their three way hug, their tiny family unit.

“Damn, Isak. I can barely breathe. You been working out or what?” says Eskild, a wet chuckles as he palms Isak’s bicep.

He rolls his eyes, ignores Eskild attempt at lightening the mood.

“I’m happy for you, guru.” he says.

“What he said.” adds Linn in a trembling whisper.

“You’re my family, you know?” replies the older man. “My little sister and my little brother. I love you.”

They hug him tighter, Linn’s head tucked under his chin, Eskild cheek mashed against his own.

“We love you too.”

Yes, he can be happy for Eskild. He’ll be sad for himself later, when no one is watching.

  
  


A month later, Linn is the first one to move out, and this time, Isak doesn’t see it coming.

He’s on his bed, headphones blaring eighties rap music, his experimental physics textbook in his lap and an embarrassingly large amount of notes spread around him. That’s how Linn finds him, with a gentle tap on his shoulder and a cautious look in her eyes. He moves slowly, careful not to disturb the precise arrangement of paper, makes room for Linn to sit next to him.

She doesn’t say anything, at first, lets her eyes wander to the old posters on his walls, the few photos of him and the boys he pinned next to his bed. The one of him, her and Eskild he’s got framed on his bedside table. Her gaze stays on it long enough for him to realise what she’s come to say.

For a fraction of a second, he pictures himself saying it pre-emptively, a foolish and vain attempt at softening a blow he knows will hurt more than he can possibly imagine. He keeps silent, as he did with Eskild, fully understands that this is her news to share. If there is one thing he can appreciate, it’s the difficulty of uttering words that feel like they can turn a life upside down.

So he lets her have this silence, lets it stretch for however long she needs, even though the wait is making him slightly nauseous.

The distant sound of children playing in the street is coming to him from his half open window, and there’s a rustle as Linn tucks her feet under her knees and reposition herself to fully face him.

He’s got half a mind to turn away, not quite ready to see the look in her eyes again, whether it be joy, sadness or pity. He takes a shuddering breath and goes for a shaky smile.

“I’ve found a place,” she says eventually, a slight wobble in a voice that’s barely above a whisper.

Try as he might, he doesn’t think he’s entirely successful at masking the recoil her words produce in him. He forces another smile.

“That’s great, Linn,” he says with as much sincerity as he can muster, which is actually not all that much. “Where?”

There, she hesitates again. It’s both odd and flattering. Because Linn isn’t usually one for beating around the bush. But she’s been acting more careful around him, ever since he finished high-school, always minding how he might respond to her blunt ways. He’s tried not to think too hard about what it might mean, but the doubt is there, right beneath his skin, gnawing at him.

“Your friends. Chris and Vilde. Noora told Eskild they were looking for a third person.”

The surprise is complete this time, and he doesn’t have the time to think about concealing it. The first thing he wants to remark is that neither Vilde nor Chris are his friends, which is a stupid thing to say, and to even think. They’re not, though, never have been. It might sound cruel but it’s just a cold, hard fact. They may attend the same parties and have friends in common, the fact of the matter is, they barely know each other. He’s never had a proper conversation with Chris, and he’s tried to avoid them with Vilde – a feat made much harder since she and Magnus got together during their second year of high school.

But what he really says is an eloquent: “Oh.”

Things, as it turns out, have been moving pretty quick without him noticing. He gets like that, sometimes, he knows. Gets so caught up in exams, in his own head and anxieties then suddenly emerges from his little world of science and worries, realises the world hasn’t waited for him.

Linn has been to visit the girls a few times already, and shows him pictures of the apartment in question. To be fair to them, it does look good. Spacious yet homey. He can see touches of garish colours here and there, which he assumes are Chris’ contribution to the décor – at least he thinks the giant unicorn poster is. And the room she shows him looks a lot bigger than the one she has right now.

The knot in his stomach won’t ease, however. He longs to share his doubts, not about Linn moving out or living in that apartment, but about her living with Chris and Vilde, of all people. Both girls aren’t known for their tact or subtlety – he should know – and it worries him that Vilde especially might unwittingly hurt the one girl who’s been more of a sister to him than his actual one has ever been. He knows that’s not fair to Linn, or to Vilde and Chris for that matters, but he can’t help it. He also knows that’s not his place to say those things, but maybe, just maybe, there’s something he can do to ease his worry a little.

“Do you… Do you think I could come over and visit the apartment with you?”

He doesn’t tell her it’s mostly out a selfish sense of preservation, he also doesn’t doubt she sees right through him. She just nods, a soft, shy smile playing on her lips, a ray of sunlight caressing her copper hair, making it shine almost blindingly.

That’s how he finds himself at Chris and Vilde’s place the following day, a nice apartment on the third floor of a modern building. They cross a large lobby, the wall on the left covered by a mirror, the one on the right with letterboxes. It’s all clean and very expensive looking, but Linn tells him it’s actually pretty cheap and was remodelled just last year.

It’s Vilde who opens the door and ushers them inside with a wide smile and an excited “Welcome.” She immediately proceeds to hug them with an enthusiasm that would probably look fake on anyone else, but he’s come to accept it for what it is. Linn returns it shyly but he remains stiff as a board.

Chris is lounging on a grey couch, popping a chewing gum loudly, her feet propped on a dark coffee table, a book in her lap. She doesn’t bother to stand up, just waves at them. For some reason, he finds her nonchalance almost reassuring. She’s always been the kind of person who walks at the sound of her own drum, not minding what everyone else thinks, and he thinks he’s probably more than a little envious of that.

Vilde offers them water and takes it upon herself to play tour guide, probably for the umpteenth time, if her slightly too formal speech is anything to go by. Linn puts her hand in his as they go through the kitchen area – open and white, the bathroom and its light pink walls and finally Linn’s future bedroom. There’s no surprise whatsoever, everything looks exactly the way it did on the pictures. He can already imagine her bed and wardrobe fitting perfectly in there.

What he doesn’t expect, is the interaction between Linn and her potential new flatmates. Observational skills aside, it’s hard to miss the softening of Vilde’s smile when she turns to Linn, or Chris’s gentle look when she sets a mug of tea in her hands with a kind “got your favorite.”

He excuses himself to the bathroom for a couple of minutes, afraid the tightening of his throat might be the least of his problems. Blinking a little too rapidly as he looks in the mirror, he lets out a long, shaky sigh. Swallowing, he steels his resolve, tries to put on smile. It’s not so hard when he thinks of how proud and happy he feels for her.

Back in the living room, he stares at the three of them sitting on the couch and chatting quietly. Vilde seems to be doing most of the talking but the other girls, sitting against each other, are listening to her with rapt attention.

Approaching slowly, he puts a hand on top of her head. She meets his gaze with a smile, grabs his hand and squeezes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, thought I’d finally start posting this little story, which is a sequel to To Ease Your Worry. I recommend reading the first part. Not sure how much sense this one makes without it.
> 
> Anyway, about the story itself: it’s mostly mapped out. I know how and when I want it to end. It’s just a matter of getting there. It’ll be very different from Part 1, for obvious reasons and will definitely not be as angsty – though I might not be able to help myself sometimes.
> 
> Another word of warning: I’m a slow writer. Updates might be regular at first (I’ve got about 3 other complete chapters ready) but that might not last. 
> 
> Also, this is a very slow build (those who read part one know that by now I think), so be patient. 
> 
> Finally, the title is from Hugging You, by the excellent Tom Rosenthal. The song will give you the feel of the complete story, basically, so I recommend you give it a listen, it’s a really beautiful one.


	2. Chapter 2

_You turned off the alarms so they don't ring_

It’s another beautiful, bright day, warm breeze blowing through the streets of the city, quiet, slow hum echoing in the distance, when Linn moves out.

Isak and Eskild are enrolled as movers and Eva comes over with her mother’s car, and things between them are still incredibly awkward. They don’t see each other often any more, which is both a relief and a sore spot. They’ve been gravitating around Jonas like distant planets on opposite orbits ever since the end of high school. Him as the faithful, forever attached best friend and her as a… whatever it is she’s to Jonas now. Friend, fuck buddy, on and off girlfriend. He’s never sure.

She hugs Linn first, then Eskild, laughing like two old friends – he supposes they sort of are, now – and she gives him a vague, friendly wave, to which he responds in kind with a gauche smile. A part of him knows he should put more effort in trying to fix whatever their relationship is now, if only for Jonas’ sake, but every time he thinks of taking that step, he reminds himself of her words then, when they were seventeen, and doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to think of her as the friend she used to be when they were kids. There’s no way she’s ever seeing him as one either.

The four of them make quick work of what little furniture Linn has, although Eskild does find an excuse to complain about pretty much everything. Until Isak throws a pillow at his face and tells him to shut up, which has the exact opposite effect. Then he and Isak are appointed to carry four heavy boxes of clothes and books into the already over crowded car.

There’s not enough room in there for the four of them and Linn’s stuff, so Eskild declares that he and Isak will take the bus while the girls drive over to Linn’s new place.

“We’ll have some boy talk!” enthuses the older man.

“We won’t,” states Isak firmly, although he knows that if Eskild wants them to talk, there is little he can do to avoid it.

So they walk, his t-shirt sticking a little uncomfortably with sweat, hair matted on his forehead. And Eskild talks. It’s rather innocent at first, he’s always had this ability to make conversation for two about the most inane topics. There’s a lot of complaining about a possible sore back, which leads him to the topic of working out at the gym with Ren. Then he’s ranting about on to The Dragging Race, or whatever it’s called, some TV show he’s been following with almost religious dedication and has been trying to get Isak to watch it too, unsuccessfully so far.

“Such a shame, you would enjoy it, baby Jesus.”

“I would really fucking not.”

Then it turns to Ren – again – and how in love with him he is, how lucky he feels to finally have found someone who loves him for who he is. He gushes about their new apartment, about the nice bed they’ve just bought, about how he’s looking forward to permanently stay there once the Kollektiv’s lease is up. He moves on to the topic of Linn’s moving out with a speed that almost gives him whiplash. He’s practically glowing with pride as he rambles about the progress she’s made this past year. And he’s right of course, she has come a long way, in no small part with the help of therapy. She’s grown more independent and sure of herself in ways that keep surprising Isak. Most of all though, he’s selfishly glad they’ve become close enough to be adopter brother and sister.

And it’s great. It’s all oh-so-great. He just wishes it didn’t inevitably mean that Eskild always ends up measuring her progress to Isak’s, or lack thereof. For one, that’s really uncalled for. That whole having-to-move-out thing notwithstanding, he’s in a pretty good place these days. While it’s not the revelation he’s hoped it would be, he’s doing pretty well in his classes at uni and he assumes it’s only going to get better with each passing year. He’s got his group of friends he keeps in touch with, he’s keeping his alcohol and weed consumption at a reasonable level, his sleeping issues are mostly under control and he’s talking to his mother more or less regularly. It’s a good summary of where he’s at right now, he thinks. It’s not perfect by any standard, but it holds its own.

So he lets Eskild talk and talk, and talk some more, taking comfort in the fact that the older man is not one to mind a one-sided conversation, especially when Isak is concerned.

Part of Eskild’s cheerfulness is affected and the exaggerated dismay at seeing Linn move out is not entirely for show. They had dinner last night, their last one together at the Kollektiv and although they all did try to put on a brave front, he knows none of them were fooled. Eskild’s never ending string of jokes and innuendos, Linn’s slightly shaking hands and his own frequent bouts of silence were dead give away. Going through old stories together made him nostalgic in a way he’d never experienced until then. They laughed at Eskild’s increasingly far fetched lies to cover for him staying in their basement back then, at some of Linn’s ridiculous looks over the years, at Isak’s one attempt making risotto, and at that time Eskild got him to wear leather trousers. They went through old photos together, finding unexpected yet fond memories in most of them. Eskild in a tutu. Isak and Linn cuddling together in front of the TV. Linn giving the finger to the camera. Noora looking at Eskild with that half-amused, half-irritated expression she usually reserved for him. A picture of them, in a group hug.

At some point, Isak pretended that he had something in his eye and needed to go wash-up. Nobody mentioned that his eyes looked even redder and his voice sounded more than a little wobbly when got back. He was the first one to go to bed that night, knowing that his flatmates probably needed a little moment to themselves without him.

Only Noora and him know how close Eskild and Linn really are, what they’ve been through together and how much they’ve supported each other. So he let them have their moment and slid under his blankets, ignoring how his favourite pillow slowly but surely got damp.

They’re already on a bus, when Eskild’s dreaded question pulls him out of his melancholy thoughts, just a few stops away from their destination.

It doesn’t help the sudden twist in his gut.

“How’s your search for a new place going, by the way?”

It’s hard not to flinch before Eskild’s earnest and concerned expression, his eyes searching Isak’s own with something that’s not quite worry, but in the very vicinity of it. He has to fight of the urge to gulp loudly and lower his head in the defeat. Instead of that, he does what he does best, shrug nonchalantly, and lie through his teeth.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Got a couple of leads so far, so you know.”

He should probably feel guilty about lying to the one person who’s taken in him when no one else would or could, but he’s long gotten used to shoving it down in the farthest corners of his mind that’s it almost become an automatic reaction now. What’s one more lie, after all?

He makes up a few vague hints of places he’s supposedly seen, and gets lucky by mentioning a neighbourhood that Eskild disapproves so much of it sends him on another tangent that lasts until they finally get to their destination.

The worst part is, he hasn’t even said anything to Jonas, or any of his other friends. He could pretend to not know why, but there’s no avoiding the truth: he doesn’t want Jonas to ask him to move in with him and Magnus. Why he doesn’t want that, he’d rather not think about.

  
  


Eskild forgets about it for the day, and life goes back to normal.

Except, it doesn’t, not really. It can’t, because now there’s just the two of them in the Kollektiv. Eskild alternates between almost aggressive cheerfulness and concerned glances at him. Isak walls himself up in a silence almost physical that follows him even to Jonas’ place. He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t even allow the thought to fully form in his mind, but the feeling that seizes his heart every time he passes Linn’s old room is clear enough. A treacherous voice that sounds suspiciously old and familiar keeps whispering that his family is broken, again, and there’s only one way this is ending for him.

Alone, left behind, again. He pushes the embryo of a panicked thought, swallows down the ache and throws himself into revising and studying for the coming year.

Another week passes.

He has six weeks left to move, and is spending full days pretending his stomach isn’t tying himself into knots at the idea. He could stay, maybe. Find new flatmates. But the thought of anyone else occupying Linn’s or Eskild’s room is too much to bear.

On a sad and miserable day, he notices Eskild’s silk robe is gone. He would probably laugh at his own reaction – and he definitely should – but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets the sudden panic crash over him and drown him almost completely. It clogs up his throat and brain, pulls him down into an abyss of terror.

So the following day he opens up his laptop. He’s never had to look for a place to live before, not really, ending up in the Kollektiv more a result of a chance meeting and Eskild’s neverending kindness than anything else. After a few tentative google searches, he opens up the Finn.no website and books himself four visits for the following day. Then three the day after, and another three more. They all go more or less the same way. The agents, or landlords, or whatever their title is, are less than enthusiastic, barely greet him with a hello before taking him through what are basically glorified phone booths.

On the plus side, he won’t be lying to Eskild now, when he says they’re shitty. On the down side, they’re really, really fucking _shitty_. One has broken windows, another has so much mould the smell almost makes him puke right there and then, and he’s pretty sure he’s heard a rat crawling in the walls of another. They’re all so tiny he thinks he could touch the four walls around him if he were to lie down and stretch a little. It’s such a cliché, he didn’t know places like these still existed, especially in a city like Oslo.

Suffice to say his spirits are pretty low when he takes a break from shabby studios on the fourth day and only books one visit, in a supposedly much nicer area. It’s a little further from uni, which is not great, but the streets are quiet and clean.

The lady who welcomes him in with a kind smile is probably a little older than his own mother, dark hair streaked with silver strands and crinkles around her eyes. She speaks in a low, slow voice as she explains that the previous tenant is moving out of the country and is willing to sell her furniture for “close to nothing.” He tries to listen to her rambling about exotic destinations and alternative ways of life, he really does. But his attention seems to have difficulty settling on anything, least of all the woman’s words.

He’s never had an eye for decoration or art or architecture, or anything close to that. And it might be an exaggeration to say his breath is taken away, yet it really kind of is. The small hallway opens up to a spacious room with high ceilings that doubles as a living room in the front and a kitchen in the back. There’s a kitchen island gleaming in the sunlight flowing in through three large windows and it’s easy to imagine himself enjoying a quiet breakfast there, his books scattered on the white tiles, sipping his favourite green lemon tea. The woman takes him through a corridor on his left that leads to two bedroom of equal size and a small modern bathroom. Everything looks both clean and cosy, and he could definitely see himself living there, in this safe cocoon of a home.

It’s when his reverie gets almost too real to ignore that it meets a brutal end at the woman’s words when she voices the monthly rent. He prides himself in keeping his reaction so subtle that if she notices anything, she politely ignores it. There is no way he can ever afford this place on his own, even if he were to ask his mother for money or work a second job. Money will be tight enough already, just covering the cheapest rents of the places he’s visited so far.

In the end, he forces a smile and thanks the woman for her time, promising that he’ll call her before the end of the week, if only to keep the illusion alive for a little longer. He doesn’t tell her that he’ll pass up on the apartment.

He books a second visit for the apartment with the broken windows the following day. Of all the cheap places he’s visited, it’s one of the least shitty ones. It’s laughably tiny and cramped, the walls an ugly yellow, a weird, slightly mouldy smell permeating the tiny living room and he’ll have to beg Jonas to sell him his old convertible bed because there isn’t any space for a proper one. He’ll also probably have to tape the windows.

His throat feels tighter than it should that night when he gets back home to the Kollektiv after that second visit. The gruff landlord agreed to send him the paperwork in a couple of days and it feels like he’s about to sign his life over. He’s not though, not really. It’s only the thought of leaving Kollektivet, the only home he’s known in the last three years. His second home in twenty years, and now he has to let go of it as he did with his first one. He’s never been good at letting things go, if he’s honest with himself.

He should have gone out with the boys instead of ignoring Magnus’ pleas and Jonas’ vaguely concerned look. Being alone with his thoughts is not something that ever amounts to any good in the end, but he can’t help it.

Sighing, he turns over and stares at the blank ceiling. He’s going to miss that stupid fucking ceiling.

The one at his future place has more mould and cracks than paint, and he doesn’t want to think about the bathroom, the almost non-existent kitchen and the crappy neighbourhood. He’ll probably need a new lock for his bike too. A bigger one.

He’s already making a mental list of the supplies he’ll need to make life bearable there when his mobile lights up.

  
  


  
  


The number sits in his phone for a couple of days until he finally decides to make the call on Friday evening. He’s just begged off a party Mikael invited him to, opting instead to rest and watch a couple of movies on his laptop.

The credits from the first movie – _Beasts of the Southern Wild_ – are rolling and he’s feeling weirdly emotional and thinks that now might be a good time to do something meaningful, push forward a little.

He’s also got enough self-awareness to realise that his initial reluctance to make the call is unusual. He’s never been one to shy away from making decisions or getting in touch with people.

This is different though, because he already knows the guy. Sort of. And though he’s seen him a few times from a distance, mostly in passing, he’s only really met him once, at a barbecue over a year ago. The awkwardness of the encounter is still etched in his mind.

Sighing at his own foolishness, he taps the name on the screen of his phone. It’s really not the best time to make that kind of call, he knows. At almost half past nine, when he’s most likely out partying with his friends, at least according to Sana.

« Hello ? »

The voice in his ear is just as he remembers, though a little uncertain, a little higher.

« Hey, Isak, sorry to bother you. I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Even, I’m a friend of Sana’s brother, we met a while ago. I was wondering if I could chat with you. »

His quick ramble leaves him breathless, feeling a little bit awkward and frustrated at his own inadequacy.

« I remember you, » say Isak after a moment of silence.

The reply leaves him temporarily speechless but he thankfully recovers easily enough.

« Great, I hope I’m not bothering you. »

« No, it’s fine. »

He hears some movement, a rustling noise another indistinct male voice. Then Isak’s voice again, muffled this time.

« What ? No ! Herregud ! Piss off Eskild. »

More sounds, a door closing. He feels strange, almost like an intruder in someone else’s private life.

« Sorry. My roommate’s a bit… Ugh. »

There’s a grumpiness in Isak’s voice that he probably shouldn’t find as endearing as he does. He clears his throat a little.

« I got your number from Sana. She said you were looking for a new flatmate, and I’m… I’m looking for someone too. »

« Oh. »

The hesitation is hard to miss in the long pause that ensues and Even wonders for a second if Isak isn’t actually trying to come up with an excuse to let him down without being too blunt. He thinks he hears a muttering that distinctly sounds like « How the fuck does she do that? » he keeps quiet and waits for an actual answer.

« Could we... »

Isak coughs a little, though it sounds more like a nervous tick than anything else.

« Could we meet, maybe ? Like, talk about it and stuff ? »

Of all the answers he expected, this is one is certainly very low on his list. His stunned silence might last for a tad too long, because Isak almost immediately back-pedals with a muttered apology.

“Sorry, that was stupid, I didn’t mean…”

“No, it’s a good idea actually!” he interrupts, trying to reign in the enthusiasm in his voice. There’s something a little skittish in the way Isak talks, and he doesn’t know yet if he finds it cute or irritating. “We could meet at Kaffebrenneriet tomorrow, the one on Skovveien, around 16h?”

Though the uncertainty is still very much present in his voice, Isak agrees, a little breathless.

“Yeah, ok.”

Another short beat of quiet breath. His heart is beating heavily against his ribcage, hammering a wild rhythm of conflicting emotions, alternatively sending bursts of giddiness and doubt pumping in his veins.

They bid each other awkward goodbyes, and he lets himself fall back down on his bed, the solid weight of his mobile phone on his chest.

He allows himself a few minutes to let his imagination run wild, picturing life in a new apartment with Isak. Images of quiet evenings spent on the couch in front of the telly, almost snuggled up together, breakfast in a sunny, sparkling white kitchen, parties with their friends, gentle teasing about each other’s taste in music. He closes his eyes, knows he should probably stop this train of thought from derailing into dangerous territory. If Isak is to ever be his flatmate, he needs to nip this tiny feeling of attraction in the bud.

And most of all, he needs to focus on himself, find out who Even Bech Næsheim really is.

  
  


It’s a glorious summer day. Summer is here and proper now, heat trickling down people’s backs, sun high up in the sky, casting small, sharp shadows, beating furiously on the smooth surfaces of building. The city, glistening in the blinding light, basks in the July stupor, moving at a syrupy pace while its inhabitants drag themselves almost sluggishly through mostly deserted streets.

It’s been a slow day and the café is empty when Isak gets in five minutes early, just as he’s coming out of the backroom.

He looks almost exactly the same as last time, he thinks. Same blond curls peaking out from under a burgundy snapback, same sensual Cupid bow, cheeks a little red from the heat, like he might have run to come here.

The simple white tee he’s wearing sticks a little to his skin and Even has avert his eyes, meeting Isak’s own green gaze.

He greets him with a smile and holds out his hand. Isak’s grip his firm and warm, and Even does not notice his arm muscle flexing ever so lightly. Instead, he gestures to a table and they both sit across from each other.

“So…”

“So…”

Their gazes meet again, and they both chuckle at the awkwardness of it all. Isak licks his lips, looking a little nervous.

There’s a freckle on his nose that Even hadn’t noticed before, and something a little guarded in his eyes.

He orders sparkly waters, refrains from scrunching his nose when Isak orders beer.

“Sana obviously thinks we should talk.”

He gets a roll of eyes for that, wonders briefly if that’s a thing Isak does a lot. When he finally speaks, there’s an undeniable fondness in his voice.

“She always thinks she knows better,” he says, huffing a little.

“To be fair, she often does.”

He’s not as close to her as he is to her brother, but he knows her well enough to appreciate how mature and smart she is. He sometimes regrets not making an effort to talk to her a little more, thinks she might be hiding a kind heart under her tough, no-nonsense exterior.

Isak shrugs, sits up a little. The slight tension in his shoulders bothers him a bit, but he would be hard pressed to say why.

“I wasn’t looking for a shared place, actually. I mean, not really.”

“Oh.”

He’s the one left speechless now. What is he to say to that, when it feels like a cold shower as been poured on his dreams of friendly domesticity. The younger man seems to read his surprise correctly, because he immediately speaks again.

“I’ve been living in a Kollektiv for a few years now, and it’s great and all but…”

“You wanted to move out on your own?”

There’s a slight pause, Isak staring at him, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Kind of, yeah. Also didn’t have much of a choice, my roommates are all moving out. So…”

He nods, realising they’re probably both more alike than they first suspected.

“I used to live with my girlfriend,” he eventually confesses. “I thought of moving out on my own after we broke up, but…”

Isak nods.

“Yeah. Everything is expensive. I’ve visited a few studios… They’re all shitholes though.”

He grimaces.

“Yeah.”

It’s probably better to let Isak think that it’s the real reason he’s looking for someone to live with. Sounding too desperate might not be a good start for a possible cohabitation. He takes a gulp of water.

This seems to be it, anyway. If Isak isn’t looking for someone to share an apartment with, there isn’t much left for him to say, except that he doesn’t understand why he was asked to meet up.

Isak has lowered his eyes, looking pensively at his barely touched beer.

“I did find a place I like though…”

He lets silence stretch between them, still not looking at him.

“I don’t even know why I visited it. It’s a big place. Really nice, but fucking expensive. Two bedrooms, huge living room… It’s… Yeah. I really liked it. I know I couldn’t afford it, so I… But then you called. Here.”

He slides an old, beat up phone with a fractured screen over and shows him a couple of pictures. Isak is telling the truth. He might even actually be understating it. The place looks absolutely gorgeous. Hardwood floors, huge windows, spacious living room and bedrooms.

He gazes back to the younger man. His eyes seem oddly clearer than before, expression serious and searching.

“Maybe you could look at it and, I don’t know, tell me what you think?”

Words catch in his throat, this is certainly not the turn he was expecting. It’s a lot to take in, and he should probably pace himself, be more cautious.

And yet.

Even has never been one for caution though, and he can’t help getting a little excited at the idea of seeing that beautiful apartment. Maybe, just maybe, he’s a little curious about Isak, too.

He tells himself that this has to mean something. That Sana brought them together for a reason, that perhaps, this is his chance, the sign he’s been waiting for, to tell him he’s okay, he can do this, he can move on.

So he agrees. They talk a little, Isak still a bit unsure, but a little lighter too, like there’s a quiet confidence lying there, ready to make itself known. Isak assures him that, contrary to popular, yet completely unfounded opinion, he’s very neat, does his chores and can cook. Even finds himself mentioning his bipolar disorder, almost in passing – and he might, or might not, tell all about it to his parents and Dr. Lund later – to which Isak replies without batting an eye that his friend Magnus’ mum is too. They agree on a loose set of rules, mostly common courtesy, because Isak is really keen on studying hard and Even sometimes needs the quiet.

Thankfully, neither of them mention their previous encounter at Sana’s – Isak’s probably all but forgotten about it anyway.

  
  


He’s not blind, and he’s certainly not stupid. Certainly not about this. The excitement on Even’s face is obvious. He’s jumping from one foot to the other, practically vibrating with it. So yes, Isak thinks he’s witnessing the guy falling in love with the place, and he can hardly blame him.

He gushed about the kitchen island after staring in awe at the windows for three full minutes – Isak counted – and was this close to actually petting the couch he figured he might have to intervene before it all goes horribly awkward. It should be embarrassing, but it’s probably one of the most endearing thing he’s ever seen. The guy’s tall, even taller than him, he’s an overgrown child the size of a baby giraffe, it’s fucking hilarious.

He turns to him, crinkly eyes sparkling with happiness, and there’s a weird coiling feeling in his stomach.

It’s been a crazy 72h hours. Even calling him out of the blue, meeting and discussing about possibly living together, and now this. The whirlwind took him by surprise and Isak hasn’t had time to catch up with everything yet, his mind still spinning a little.

He got a text from Sana this morning, and he can only imagine how smug she must have looked as she typed the three words she sent him. “You’re welcome.” He rolled his eyes, hard, still wondering how she knew and why she thought it would be a good idea, but then again he’s learnt to not question things too much over the years when it comes to Sana.

And while they both know that Isak won’t ever clearly say it, she’s probably right too. For all his qualms about living with someone he barely knows, he actually likes Even already. It’s hard not too, when the guy is all smiles, smooth confidence and gentle teasing.

Other things are looking up, too. He’s finally got a reply from the manager of a supermarket about his application for a job in the fall, which means he’ll be able to make a little more money than he is right now.

Even explained that he actually works part-time at Kaffebreneriet, has been for a few years now, and makes decent money, so he doesn’t have to worry about his end of the rent.

The older man comes back to him, and Isak sees the lady smiling at them from the corner of his eye. She’s got this undecipherable look as Even holds his hand to Isak.

And Isak knows the question before he hears it. He already knows his answer to it, too.

“So what do you say, flatmates?”


	3. Chapter 3

_I don't know where we are in the grand scheme of things_

The rain hasn’t stopped. Millions of icy tears pouring of an eternally mourning sky. It has to be one of the most humid winters they’ve had in a long, long time; and though he knows it’s slowly going to start morphing into spring soon enough, he can’t seem to imagine the end of it. Can’t seem to shake the gloomy, wet, grey sticking to him. The sheer exhaustion that has rolled itself around him might have something to do with it.

As he watches the bustling city pass before his eyes, he wonders if perhaps, for once, he could simply have taken his dad up on his offer to drive him. He could use his father’s jokes and warmth right now.

He lets his mind get carried away by the inane conversation between the two elder ladies sitting right behind him. He supposes the headphone he’s wearing might give them the impression he can’t hear them talking – the truth is that he’s yet to actually put a song on, can’t bring himself to even pick one.

So the conversation flows, louder than strictly necessary, topics jumping from irritating neighbours, to irritating children and irritating people in general. There seems to be a lot of irritation going on.

On any other day, he would probably find it amusing. But they remind Even a little too much of _him_.

He stops that train of thought by finally choosing a song at random, hopes the lulling sound of a harp will sooth his frayed nerves a little. He hasn’t heard that particular track in years, doesn’t even remember adding it to his playlist.

The music doesn’t quite help assuage the creeping anxiety that’s been plaguing him since he left his parents’ house a couple of hours ago, but it does help focus on his therapist’s words. The breathing exercises she taught him come back easily. He still practices them regularly to this day, and has had to use them a little too often for his liking recently.

He used them last night, as he held a sobbing Isak in his arms.

Short inhale. Long exhale. Count to three. Repeat. He quickly lost track of how long they stayed like this, until the trembling eventually subsided and left Isak quietly sniffling into the deserted streets, their sounds muffled by the hissing of the rain.

Every minute detail is still etched deep in his mind, will probably stay that way for years to come. It wasn’t hard to recall everything and recount what happened to Dr. Lund with the odd, almost out-of-body awareness he’s gained in hindsight. So he did. Told her how the downpour had turned into a pitter-patter after a while, how the cat he’d followed into the street stayed with them, brushed itself against his back, how he had to wipe the screen of his phone a few times before he was able to finally call his parents. How Isak clung to him with heart-wrenching despair at first, before his grip became looser in the car.

He told her about the look on his parents’ faces when they eventually found them, the widening of his mothers’ eyes, the slack-jawed, almost disbelieving expression on his father’s face. The rest of the night is more of a blur after they got in the car, Isak pretty much passed out against him.

They took him home, his parents’ home, dried him and changed him out of his wet clothes, and laid him on the bed in the guest room. His mother gasped then, one of those loud, almost cartoonish sounds that he didn’t think people made in real life. He understood though, once he got a proper look at him. His pallid skin was what struck him the most, he thinks in retrospect. Almost translucent, ghostly white as it was. Blue lips and hollow cheeks, sunken, empty eyes still red with tears. He looked so skinny too, paper thin.

His mother had taken a careful step toward his passed out flatmate and carefully cradled his right hand in hers.

Feeling his throat close up a little at this particular mention, he told his therapist that he hadn’t even noticed at first how bruised and bleeding it was. He explained that he then helped his mum clean out the wounds as carefully and gently as possible – although Isak was too unconscious to show any sign of pain or discomfort – and then took turns staying close afterwards until the early hours of the morning, when the pale, hesitant light of a hidden sun showed them that Isak was sleeping peacefully.

He still is, when Even finally makes it back to his parents’. The house is empty, both of them went to work earlier, although hesitant to leave him and Isak alone. His mother did make him promise to call her if anything happens, before pressing a kiss to his forehead.

It doesn’t look like Isak is going to be up and about any time soon in any case, so he settles on the couch, his coursework in his lap. He hasn’t missed many lectures this year so far, hates it when he has to, but figures that this once can be an exception.

Focusing proves rather difficult though. His exhausted brain is having a hard time making sense of the words before him, and thoughts of Isak and the night before keep flashing, prickling at the back of his head, the need to constantly check on his sleeping flatmate flaring, stronger and stronger in his chest.

He had been burning up when they brought him in last night, which isn’t all that surprising in retrospect, and he really hopes he hasn’t caught pneumonia or something similar on top of everything.

It takes his phone lighting up for him to finally acknowledge that he’s not going to make any more progress this morning. He picks it up, smiles at the sight of Eskild’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hey, Eskild.”

“Even! How are you? How is he?” asks the older man, not quite concealing the anxiety from his voice.

He’d sent him a text, soon after taking care of Isak last night, right before crashing and letting his brain and body shut down from sheer mental exhaustion, confident in Eskild’s ability to get the message across to all of Isak’s friend that the young man was, if not okay, at least safe with Even and his family.

“No change. He’s still sleeping. He’s…” He cuts himself off, not sure how much he should divulge to Isak’s self-adopted brother, or really how to sum up everything that’s happened in the last twelve hours.

He sighs.

“He’s not good, Eskild. I found him on the street. I don’t know how long he was out there, a few days maybe. He’s in a pretty bad shape.”

The sharp intake of breath and the silence that follows is enough to make him cringe at his own words and regret his blunt retelling.

“What… Is there anything I can do? Anything any of us can do?”

Even doesn’t snort, but it’s a near thing. That’s the million kroner question, isn’t it? What do they do, now? What _can_ they do? He hasn’t the faintest idea of where to go from there, how to help Isak, and he tells Eskild as much. There is no certainty that his flatmate will even accept his help at this stage, although he does hope that what happened the previous night might be the start of a shift between them.

“I think for now, we have to wait until he wakes up and… take it from there I guess. I want to help him, I really do, but… Things between us are… You know.”

“I figured as much. Isak… I love him, I do, he’s the annoying, yet adorable little gremlin of a brother I never had, but… Sometimes he pushes everyone away so hard that… Yeah.”

“That’s why I took him to my parents. I’m hoping my mum can get through to him.”

Silence between them stretches again, not entirely uncomfortable, but letting the questions and worries occupy a space that keeps getting bigger.

“You didn’t tell me how you’re feeling.” remarks Eskild after a while.

He lets outs a low, tired chuckle.

“I’m okay. I mean…” He pauses. It sounds awfully like the automatic answer Isak gave people when he clearly wasn’t, and it’s something Even used to do. Before. “I’m exhausted. And worried. Angry. And sad too.”

Those are the words he said to his therapist this morning when she asked him the same question, and made him sift through his feelings one by one. It’s an important step, she says, to take the time to analyse everything so he can take a step back from himself, in a way, and not get overwhelmed by emotions that frequently threaten to take over.

Exhaustion, both mental and physical was no surprise, he told her. He’d spend the day before walking around the city, running around really, worrying about the whereabouts of his roommate, dealing with people anxious about their missing friend.

It’s Dr. Lund’s asking him if he thought this weariness was only due to what happened with Isak that gave him pause. It had been easy to put the blame of his recent stress on Isak and his’ deteriorating relationship. But Dr. Lund is never satisfied until she’s made him look at other possibilities, dug deeper. So he confessed that it was entirely possible that his fight with Isak had just been the icing on a cake that had been baking for a while.

He acknowledges that his failed attempts at friendship with his roommate are a big part of his confused and conflicting emotions, but he also realised that his relationship with the boys, Mikael especially is still strained, that he still feels unbalanced in this apartment that doesn’t quite feel like home yet, that although he loves teaching and the idea of making a career out of it, he hasn’t quite managed to stifle down feelings of anxiety and inadequacy and finally, he doesn’t know what to make of his relationship with Julie.

And now he worries. Wonders if either he or Isak will have to move out like he was about to just a couple of days ago, doesn’t want to think about another failure at getting his life back on track. Worries about Isak too, about the reasons that pushed him this far down the rabbit hole, doesn’t know if they’ll ever be able to mend whatever semblance of friendship they’d briefly managed to strike.

From there stems his anger, at himself, at Isak and at everything that somehow keeps piling against him. He’s tried so hard, likes to think that he has done good, been good. It’s unfair.

“I just want to catch a break.” he eventually muttered.

Dr. Lund looked at him with infinite sad eyes for a fraction of a second. She knows him better than most, knows him well enough by now that she was quick to turn the direction of his thoughts around.

“The one thing that keeps getting in your way, the same way it does with most of us, is yourself.” she said, a gentle, yet sure smile on her older features. “It’s something we’ve been working on for a long time, something that we sometimes work on all our lives.”

“You have accomplished so much, in so little time,” she said, a hint of pride tinting her voice. “You put an end to a relationship that had become toxic to both you and Sonja. You moved out, found a new place to live, established a relationship, though shaky, but still very much there, with your new flatmate, have done incredibly well with your work placement in January, have entered a stable, happy relationship with Julie, and you still know to turn to help when things get too hard.”

“So I want you to remember that those are things you should be proud of, no matter what.”

“You should rest,” Eskild’s voice rings through the speaker, pulling him back in their conversation. “Isak wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself for him,” he says gently.

He’s right, of course, he is. Because Eskild is apparently, behind is loud and sometimes brash exterior, the wisest of them all. He’s already climbing the stairs to his room before he realises he’s unconsciously following the advice.

“Should I call anyone, or…”

“I’ll do it. Just… Tell him, okay. That I love him. That we all love him. So, so much.” His voice breaks a little, and Even can hear him swallow down the beginning of a sob. His own throat feels tighter than it should. “And tell him to call his mum, too.” he concludes, a little brighter.

“I promise.”

It’s not a word that he uses often, yet he knows it’s a promise he’ll keep. They bid each other goodbye, Eskild promises to call again soon, and Even finds it almost funny how he’s come to trust and rely on the older man in such a short time.

Maybe there is a bit of truth to what Dr. Lund said, maybe he’s managed to form more relationships that he’d previously realised.

He doesn’t think he’ll manage to find sleep in his overstressed state, all questions and uncertainties swimming in his brain, flooding his thoughts. Yet, it’s almost dark by the time he opens his eyes, unaware he’d closed them in the first place. He wipes the little bit of drool on his cheeks and straightens his t-shirt, shivers to the drop in temperature as he rolls out of bed.

The house is quiet, but he thinks he can hear the distant, muffled voices of his parents downstairs.

His first instinct is to go check on Isak, so he crosses the hallway and silently pushes the door open. The room is plunged in almost complete darkness but he can just about make out the unmoving shape of his flatmate curled up underneath thick blankets, tufts of wild hair barely peaking out. His chest does a strange thing then, an almost painful squeeze, so brief it’s gone before he’s realised what happened, not sure if he dreamt it but for the hollow print that it leaves.

He hesitates, almost gives in to the temptation to step inside, get to the bed, run his hand through the tangled mop of hair, like he did last night. Instead, he shuts the door quietly behind him and goes downstairs to his parents.

They waste no time in long greetings and silently engulf him in their arms. They remain like this for a bit, hugging each other, feeding off their mutual warmth and love. His eyes are a little damp by the time he lets go of them and they settle around the kitchen table.

He briefly recounts the events of the day before, Eskild’s calls, his conversation with Isak’s mother and his search for the missing young man, the revelations that came with it and the results it yielded. He tells them about his session with Dr. Lund and her conclusions. He almost laughs at their identical reaction as they both reach for his hands to put in theirs.

“We’re so proud of you, honey,” whispers his mother. “You’re incredible.”

He lowers his head, doesn’t tell her that he didn’t feel incredible at all when he witnessed his flatmate breaking down in front of him. Didn’t feel incredible when he saw how sickly he looked, or how bruised his hand is.

“I don’t know what to do now,” is what he eventually settles on.

It takes a little while for his parents to answer, and it’s his mother who does, after a long, meaningful look to her husband.

“He’ll come to you, honey. From what you told us, it looks like he might be willing to open up to you.”

Her smile dims a little, her face growing more serious as she goes on.

“But you need to be careful, sweetheart. There are things between the two of you that… need time to resolve. Whatever happened last night doesn’t take away the things he said to you, no matter how angry or desperate he might have been.”

He can only nod mutely at the seriousness of her voice. It’s one of the many things he admires in her, in both of them: they’ve always had the ability to look at the bigger picture and tell him without sounding condescending when he needs to be careful or when he ought to take a step back. They’ve never let their love for him impede their ability to analyse a situation as objectively as possible and share their thoughts freely.

“What we need to do,” his dad finally says, “is have a think on how things are going to work this week.”

Even’s mother nods her assent.

“I don’t want to leave Isak on his own.” Even says immediately.

The thought of his flatmate spending his day all alone is a scary one. He might be projecting his own anxiety, but he’s almost certain that being left to his own devices is the last thing Isak needs right now.

“I understand, love. But we both have work and you have class. And I don’t like the idea of you missing more, not matter how just the cause.”

As always, his mum is right. While he does want to stay in all day looking after Isak, he’ll readily admit that he’s also not wholly keen on the idea of missing more class than he has.

He shrugs helplessly. Being around and hoping it’s enough to spur Isak to open up to him is the only plan he has, and it’s a shaky one at best.

It takes a while, but they manage to work out a schedule between the three of them. As luck would have it, he doesn’t have class the following morning, and his mother finishes at three, so Isak won’t be alone for a long stretch of time. They also work out that he’ll have to spend Thursday and Friday morning on his own but Even’s dad can keep him company the rest of the time, and Even finishes at two on Friday afternoon.

“I mean,” he eventually says, “that’s assuming he’s okay with staying here. And we don’t know if that’s the case. He’s not always the easiest person.”

His mother sends him her most reassuring smile.

“You’ll just have to convince him. And if you don’t, I’ll talk some sense into him,” she chuckles, in that motherly tone he’s so fond of.

  
  


They have a quiet dinner that night, just the three of them. Even’s mother goes up to check on Isak and clean his wounds again, but he barely stirs. Even’s a little worried that he still hasn’t woken up but she assures him it’s to be expected. If he hasn’t slept properly in days, his body and mind need to recuperate, she says. He knows better than most the truth in her words, remembers the many, many times noticing the light filtering under Isak’s door, wondering how long he’d been suffering from insomnia. He’s happy Isak is finally getting the rest he deserves, though he wishes the circumstances were different.

It’s his dad who eventually manages to take his mind off his sleeping flatmate by asking about Julie.

“I’m just curious,” he says, putting on his most innocent expression, which is actually not very innocent at all. “You don’t talk a lot about her.”

He splutters a little, half embarrassed, half indignant. There’s an odd squeeze in his chest at the mention of her name, and he suddenly feels a little out of his depth.

“I do! I just… I’ve been preoccupied!”

And he has. She has, too.

“She’s been really busy with work lately. She’s got this abuse case… It’s pretty bad. I mean, she hasn’t told me much about it, but… It’s taken up a lot of her time. And I’ve been busy. With… Everything,” he finishes lamely.

“Don’t tease, Jan, we’re happy for you, honey. I’m glad things are going well with her, and no, we won’t pressure you to bring her over for dinner.”

She gives her husband a look that’s a little on the harder side of playful. He shrugs, unrepentant.

“You know I’m just teasing. We really thought you and…”

“Julie,” his wife cuts off, and Even is pretty sure there’s a hint of warning in there, but for the life of him, he can’t understand why. His parents’ communication sometimes confuses him, a whole language unto itself.

His dad hesitates a little, nods his head, a little more quiet.

“Yeah, Julie. As long as you’re happy…”

“We’re happy.”

He rolls his eyes at them, hoping it’s not a tick he’s inheriting from his long exposure to Isak’s grumpiness.

“Can we be done with the relationship talk? I don’t know if we’re at the meet-the-parents stage yet anyway. We’re taking things as they come, you know, trying not to think too hard about it.”

“That’s very mature of you,” praises his mother with another smile.

“Well, I am very mature, you know.” He gives her his most winning smile, eyes shining just a little more brightly.

“Of course you are,” his parents say at the same time.

They stare at each other, before giggling ridiculously. He huffs, only a little annoyed at being the target of their antics. But he can’t be mad at them, especially since he doesn’t have much of a ground to stand on.

He is a little childish sometimes. Maybe it’s from being an only child, pampered by two of the most ridiculous parents in existence – although he might be biased – or being friends with a group of boys whose total added maturity amounts to very little, especially compared to someone like Sana.

Mikael is of the opinion that it’s society’s fault, that it encourages people to behave like children longer than they used to in bygone days. He says that it’s the society of leisure that hinders the proper maturation of people into responsible adults before the age of thirty.

On the days when he’s feeling generous with his best friend, and himself, Even thinks he might have a point. Most days though, he thinks he’s just full of shit.

“And how is Mikael, then? It’s been a while since we’ve seen him,” remarks his dad.

All thoughts of Isak and Julie gone, Even launches in a retelling of Mikael’s latest tales of woe at work. The discomfort in his chest is still there, albeit slightly muted.

  
  


He passes the guest room on his way to bed a few hours later. The sound of coughing gives him pause, but the silence that ensues convinces him that Isak is still probably asleep. So he settles on putting his hand against the cool wood of the door, as if it’ll somehow bring the younger man a modicum of comfort and peace. That it’ll signal to him that he meant what he said, that he’s not alone. That whatever they are to each other, Even is there for him, will be there for him.

Lying on his bed in the dark, and staring unseeingly at old posters that he still hasn’t taken down, his head comfortably placed right between his two pillows, he goes back to the night before. Without his parents or his therapist around, in the safety of his own room and the quiet of the night, he finally lets it all sink in, lets his body and mind remember how it felt to have the trembling, sobbing form of Isak Valtersen tucked in his arms. He remembers the freezing raindrops sliding over the both of them, the cold pavement, hard and rough on his knees. And the cold of his cheeks against his neck, his soaked hair tickling his chin. His grip, weakened yet still desperately strong, his breathing, erratic and shallow. His voice, broken murmurs of incoherent pleas and apologies. In this moment when the terror and relief had finally collided, he’d been consumed by a single thought: he never wanted to let him go.

A few blankets. Two doors and a few metres. That’s what separates them right now. He’s so close but he’s never felt so far out of reach. And now that there’s no one to hear him, Even can admit it in a whisper. He misses him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, I posted a Christmas one-shot taking place in this universe last week, it's called _Och hoppets stråle går igenom världen_. Hope you guys enjoy it.


	4. Chapter 4

_But I just wanna be hugging you tonight_

For a while, not too long after his father left for the first time, Isak was afraid of silence.

It wasn’t a gripping terror one might experience when faced with heights or tarantulas or insects, not a screams and cold sweat inducing phobia exactly. But when the house got too quiet, which happened more often than not, he found it harder and harder to cope. He had never been a loud child, preferring the soothing comfort of picture books to the harsh sounds of the telly, and turned into an even quieter teenager: making noise didn’t come naturally to him so he soon took up the habit of blasting loud music through his headphones, or meeting Jonas at the skate park where he could drown his own silence in the shouts of others around him.

That didn’t last. As he grew older and high school slowly but surely turned into his own personal hell, he found himself seeking silence and wrapping himself in it, building a barricade of unspoken words and unmade sounds as protection against all exterior intrusions, including but certainly not limited to judgmental eyes and remarks from the people closest to him whom he kept disappointing. Words had long since lost their value and meaning, and while he had originally found it easy to divert attention with a few of his own, he’d soon abandoned this tactic in favour of just plain silence, cold shoulder, or ghosting phone calls.

Isak doesn’t talk much any more, that’s what people say about him. He doesn’t communicate. And what little he says borders on the inane when he’s in a good mood, and on the aggressively acerbic when he’s not – which is his default setting, according to most. Even Magnus has learned to be weary of what Mahdi calls his “sick burns”.

It’s gotten him here. In silence again. Wrapped in thick, white blankets, his skin a little moist and prickly, his throat dry and sore, a heavy weight on his chest. He doesn’t know what wakes him up first, the throbbing pain in his hand that makes him bite his lower lip harder than necessary or the coughing fit that sets his throat on fire. The room he’s in is sparsely decorated, walls a calming hue of beige that somehow reminds him of his parents room, back in their old house. There’s a couple of unfamiliar books haphazardly resting on the bedside table next to him, a small chest of drawers and thick light blue curtains. The door is closed. He doesn’t know what lies behind it and it makes him both nervous and extremely curious.

He knows where he is. He doesn’t know how he got there – though he has a faint idea – but it’s clear that this unknown room belongs to Even’s family. Another thing that’s a complete mystery is how much time has passed since… Well, since then.

He remembers everything about that moment. Not in excruciating detail, for which he’s grateful, but the slightly fuzzy images and sounds in his mind paint a clear enough picture of what happened. He wilfully pushes those memories back to the corners of his head, determined to not deal with them for as long as he can get away with, and tries to focus on what probably happened after.

His logical brain tells him that he collapsed in Even’s arms and that the older man must have called his parents and, thankfully, not the hospital. They probably brought him here, took care of him and made sure he was, not alright, because he isn’t, and probably won’t ever be again, but something temporary, a little better than horrible.

The unusual clarity he’s experiencing also tells him he must have slept for a long time. Possibly a lot more than the traditional eight hours that have always sounded so alien to him. It should be a godsend, to feel like he finally has his cognitive skills back. To be able to think clearly for the first time in days, weeks perhaps.

It’s the worst possible thing.

He can see now, how bad he let things go. How far down the rabbit hole he let himself fall. He understands the wide scope of hurt he’s caused, to himself and to his friends. And for a few, long minutes, the nausea that claws its way up his chest into his throat cuts off his breath and swallows him whole again. He welcomes it like an old friend, doesn’t even bother trying to fight the tears.

He can scarcely believe the nasty words he’s slung at them, at Even especially, can’t believe he cooked up delirious plans of moving out and starting over away from Jonas, Eskild and Linn. Away from his mum. His reasonable self would also tell him he would never punch a wall.

The throb in his hand tells him otherwise.

And despite everything, through the mess and destruction Isak wrought around him the one person he’s hurt the most is the one who found him and held him. Saved him. Against his better judgment, his thoughts turn back to the arms that wrapped themselves around him and the person attached to them, and he has to force himself to quit that train of thinking as well.

Already, the brief clarity he’s had is threatened by a cancerous panic heralding wildly conflicting emotion. He stifles them down as best he knows and goes back to the old, familiar one. Shame.

A violent coughs pulls him back to his present situation, and it’s in that moment that he hears a soft knock on the door, before it opens slowly.

His eyes are closed but for some strange reason, he doesn’t need them to know that Even is now hovering a few metres away. He sighs again.

“I’m awake.”

He almost jolts at the pain the words, raw and raspy, bring to his already aching throat and he can’t quite keep another series of coughs down. He senses Even moving closer to him, the worry almost sipping disgustingly out of his every pore.

“How… How are you feeling?” The quiet and warm familiarity of his flatmate’s voice is a not entirely unexpected comfort, tethering him to the cocoon of blankets around his now shivering body.

The “I’m fine” is on the tip of his tongue and he almost lets it out without a second thought. But he’s not. It’s taken him days of erring the streets of Oslo in a half-conscious state to admit it. He’s not fine, hasn’t been for a long time. Months probably. He’s also so very tired of lying all the time.

“Stupid. Ashamed. Shitty.”

He coughs again, shrugs a little, defeated, opens his eyes and sits up against the headboard. Fuck, he smells. He avoids Even’s concerned gaze by hanging his head low. His right hand his wrapped tightly in bandages.

“Is it okay if I sit?”

He shrugs again.

“Your house.”

So Even does, his silence conforting Isak’s original assumption.

“Mum thinks it’s just bruises, but she said you should probably get it checked out, just in case,” he says, nodding towards Isak’s bandaged limb.

He thinks it’s probably not a good sign when the pain’s so bad it feels almost numb. The only similar experience he’s ever had was when he broke his arm trying to impress Jonas by being “the master of skateboard.” He’d had a cast covered in very cool drawings to show for it. He had been eleven when it happened, and he’d managed not to cry in front of Jonas, although it had felt like his bone was being crushed – it wasn’t. He’d waited until his parents had taken him home to finally let himself cry into his pillow.

“Yeah,” is all his says this time.

He’s not crying any more at least, which is something. He doesn’t think he has a single tear left in his body anyway.

“What day is it?” he finally asks.

“Oh.” Even seems momentarily stunned by the question, until realisation dawns on him. “It’s Wednesday. You’ve been sleeping for the past twenty-four hours. You had a fever, but mum says it’s gone down a bit.”

He nods mutely, for lack of a more appropriate reaction. There is much he ought to say but can’t bring himself to. A lot that Even doesn’t say either, though he knows he’s dying to – he can almost hear the questions forming in his brain.

“I was… We… Everyone was really worried.”

He doesn’t dwell on the change of pronouns, files it for later examination, knows he’ll poke and prod it until he can extract meaning out of it, already forgoes the obvious conclusions. Instead, he reacts instinctively with a dark snort and a roll of eyes.

“Right. Because I’m such a joy to be around. I’ve been such a great friend to everyone.”

He intends for his words to have more bite and resentment, but apparently can’t muster the illusion of those any more, so his voice comes out a lot wobblier and more pitiful than he would like.

“I promise you. They love you Isak. Eskild, Jonas, Linn, Sana… We looked everywhere for you.” Even insists.

He sounds so genuine, Isak finally looks up to meet the overwhelming sincerity of his blue eyes. It strikes him harder than he thought possible, he has to avert his gaze again.

“You’re all idiots then. You should… You should…”

He gulps again and starts coughing, almost grateful for the interruption. He hasn’t picked the words to end that sentence but he knows there is enough self-loathing in there than neither he nor Even would have liked it.

The gentleness in the older man is almost unbearable, hits him with slow, comforting bullets.

“Please, Isak. Don’t push me away. I meant what I said. I’ll help you, anything, I’ll do it. You’re not alone, okay? Eskild, he loves you. You’re his baby brother, he told me so. And Linn, you’re everything to her, she looks up to you, I barely know her and I can see that. And Jonas… He’s your brother too, always has been. And Sana…”

“Sana hates me!” interrupts Isak, as loud as his hoarse, trembling voice allows, which is not very. “And you should to, the things I said to you…”

“Sana thinks you’re brilliant. She always has. You’re her bud, her best bud.” He pauses.

With infinite caution, he puts a gentle, soft hand on Isak’s arm.

“And I forgive you, okay? I know you didn’t mean those things. And I’m sorry too, for what I said to you.”

He shakes his head, tries very hard to blink the beginning of tears away.

“You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. I…”

“I do. Look at me.”

He somehow finds himself to refuse that command, and meets Even’s clear eyes. They’re focused on his own, looking deep inside and he wants to tell him everything. He wants to beg for his help, for his comfort, for his friendship.

“I forgive you, Isak.”

It takes a while, Even lets his eyes do the rest of the talking for him, willing him to understand and accept.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, what little fight he had left goes out of him. He jerks his head and slumps into Even’s arms again.

He doesn’t cry, as familiar, warm arms encircle him again, tears just roll down his cheeks of their own volition. They stay like that, not talking, not crying, Isak leaning in Even’s arms, fully aware of how better the embrace is making him feel.

He needs to say something, needs to speak up, take a step towards Even.

“I don’t know what to do any more.”

If the honesty of his own words surprises his flatmate, he doesn’t say anything. It certainly surprises him. They’re probably the truest words he’s spoken in a long time.

Even pokes him playfully in the ribs.

“Ow!”

“You could shower, for a start. You smell.”

He lets go of their embrace, and seeing the amused grin directed at him for the first time in months loosens something in his chest. He goes for an exaggerated sniff of his armpit but gags so violently it sends him into another coughing row.

“Fuck.”

He manages a smile he thinks comes out more as a grimace.

“Yeah. We tried to wash you a little, sort of, but…” Even shrugs, his face little pinker than before.

He doesn’t need to say more for Isak to understand how awkward this must have been. He doesn’t even want to think about how they got him in his underwear.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

  
  


The bathroom is all hardwood floors and panelled walls, light brown and white with a walk-in shower and a bathtub, a beautiful stone-carved sink. The subtle pine scent actually does remind him of Even. He tries not to use too much water, feels like an intruder into the house of these people who seem set on offering comfort and kindness he doesn’t deserve. But the hot spray sparks that tenuous flame of safety he’d smothered a few days ago. So he lets himself enjoy it a little longer than he probably should, lets water hit his skin until it feels raw and red, until his fingers start to prune, before putting on the clothes Even left for him. Looking at himself in the mirror is a mistake that sends him tumbling back down into a brief, yet intense maelstrom of despair.

Like most teenagers, he went through a vain phase that mostly translated into trying – and usually failing – to style his hair to look just right. He quickly got out of that habit and his constant lack of money meant he eventually gave up what little care he had about clothes and brands. But even now he can admit how awful he looks. Too long hair hanging limply around his emaciated face, arms almost like tooth pricks. His eyes are the worst, he thinks. Hollow and lifeless.

He allows himself to vainly dwell on his gaunt appearance for a few more seconds before pulling on a thick green jumper and joining Even in the kitchen downstairs. It’s modern, a little on the slick side, but homey. The fridge is covered in handwritten notes and photographs. The kind of place his mother would enjoy. And most of all, it smells amazing. Even’s cooking, of course. The man in question swaying and bobbing his head enthusiastically to some pop song Isak’s never heard, singing the words – very off key – with gusto. The sight roots him on the spot. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s seen him so carefree; it’s an image he didn’t know he’d been missing until now. He watches him for a while, lets the simple happiness of his flatmate fly to him and envelop him in something that could be confused with relief.

Even doesn’t stop when he sees him, although his smiles falls somewhat for the briefest of seconds.

“Hey! Look at you, almost didn’t recognize you without the smell.”

He rolls his eyes and chuckles.

“You almost didn’t recognize me because I’m wearing your giant clothes.” he snarks back.

Even’s smile gets impossibly wider, his eyes crinkling as it does.

“Made us food. Remember that pasta salad we had when watched _Big Fish_?”

He nods, a bit dumbly. While Even’s being casual about it, he knows there’s no way this is an innocent coincidence. Isak had liked that meal, so much, it had been one of his favourites. They’d cooked together that night, Isak cutting the vegetables and Even cooking the pasta and making the sauce. They’d spent an amazing evening in front of the telly, where he had let Even’s commentary lull him to sleep. He’d woken up a few hours with a blanket around him.

“Yeah, that’s… That’s good.”

He coughs again, the pain in his throat a momentary distraction.

“Oh,” exclaims Even, picking up a small bottle from the gleaming kitchen island. “Cough syrup, mum says it’ll help.”

After he’s obediently taken a spoonful of it – which does help a tiny bit – they both settle around the large oak wooden table in the living room. The walls are panelled in white and adorned with a couple of paintings, a large French window opening on what seems to be a small wooden terrace.

“I hope you’re hungry.”

Honestly, he’s really not. Or maybe he is, he’s not so sure any more. He hasn’t eaten in days, and if he didn’t know it, the bone-deep fatigue and tiredness he’s been feeling would be enough to indicate that he’s seriously undernourished, even he can admit to that. Yet, the thought alone of ingesting food is enough to send his stomach twisting itself into painful knots.

He works his jaw, tries to put the thought into words, word into sentences.

“I… I should eat.”

Even nods with a smile. And so they eat, although Isak mostly pushes his food around in-between tiny bites. Silence falls between them, a heavy blanket covering discussions they need to have, words kept unsaid for too long. For once, Isak thinks it might be his turn to take that first step.

“How…”

He hesitates. There are many things he wants to say, and a lot more questions he wants to ask. It’s only fair, if he wants to mend his relationship with Even, and he finds himself wanting that more than anything he’s ever desired. The need for Even to forgive him and be his friend, his real friend is suddenly all encompassing, but the terror of taking that step and letting go of everything is no less consuming. So he settles for the most pressing question.

“How did you find me?”

Even observes him for a moment, eyes following the inane movements of his fork scrapping the plate, pushing the pasta back to the centre of it.

“Luck, I guess,” he says eventually. “I called everyone, looked everywhere. I couldn’t find you, but then… I don’t know. I was walking and I saw this cat and it looked at me like…”

He shrugs.

“I don’t know why I followed it, but it lead me to you.”

To anyone else, this would be the most absurd story, the idea that some random cat took Even to Isak. But he knows better.

“She’s… a friend. Sort of. She lives around and I go see her sometimes. Give her food when I can.”

Even nods.

“I guess she’s grown attached then. Cats are like that, they’ll like you if you feed them,” he says with a chuckle.

“Yeah. She’s really sweet. I’ll have to bring her a treat.”

Except he won’t, because he’s officially broke, and he needs to tell Even. He owes him that, at least. The older man is still looking at him, kind and patient, and it takes a lot of effort to meet his gaze. He takes a deep breath.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

He counts a few seconds. Takes another breath.

“I’m… I lost my job, at the supermarket. I don’t have any money left. I mean. I can cover my share of next month’s rent, but after that…”

He shrugs a little, going for nonchalant, but the break in his voice betrays him. Weirdly enough, the confession feels like a load off his shoulders.

“Is that why you packed your suitcase?”

The question takes him by surprise. Actually, Even barely reacts to his confession.

“Yeah. I mean, partly. I… I had this stupid plan of leaving and starting over somewhere else. Quitting uni and stuff.”

“Where were you going to go?”

Even’s voice is steady but for the first time, he detects a crack in it and wonders if this is what finally pushes him away for good.

“I don’t know, I was… I wasn’t thinking straight. I was angry and scared and…” He sighs. “Things haven’t been going great lately.”

He almost snorts at his own euphemism. Things have never been great, is the actual truth. They were good for a while, maybe, but haven’t been in a long time. And maybe it’s time he acknowledged that. Even looks at him some more, before nudging his plate.

“Do you think you can try for a couple more bites?”

He doesn’t tell him he really doesn’t want to, he doesn’t, just nods and goes for it. Indulging Even seems like the only thing he can do at this point.

“I knew something was off,” says his roommate. “But I didn’t know what to do. You were so closed off and angry, I was afraid to ask. So I went to Eskild, and we planned an intervention with Jonas, at my birthday party. And you know how that turned out.”

He pauses.

“It was wrong to go behind your back, I know that, and I’m really sorry. I promise to never do that again to you. I swear, Isak.”

Even looks so earnest and serious that he can only whisper a small “yeah” of agreement.

“After… After our fight, I talked to my parents, to Julie. I thought long and hard. And…”

He lowers his head, and his usual confidence seems to have vanished, his smile falling right off his face.

“I thought about moving out too.”

“Oh.”

Even sighs. Isak has lowered his gaze again, staring hard at his fork pushing food around.

“I’m sorry, Isak. I was in a bad place, and…”

The younger man shakes his head, looks up again. He hates the sight of Even looking so defeated. Hates that he’s the cause of it, and swears to do better by him. And honesty seems the way to go.

“Don’t. It’s… I don’t blame you. I was horrible to you. To everyone.”

He pushes his plate away.

“And now, I’ve lost everything. I lost my internship, my job, my friends. I stopped going to uni, to the pool. I just lie in my bed all day or walk around the city. I don’t sleep at night and I feel sick all the time.”

His voice trembles and Even watches him gulp a glass of water painfully. They don’t say anything for a while, and Isak can’t even bring himself to look at the half empty plate any more. He thinks Even is probably watching him but doesn’t dare look up to confirm it.

“You’re wrong,” he says after a while.

His words are infinetely gentle, but there is a certainty in them that shakes him a little. He looks up to meet Even’s burning gaze.

“I know you lost your job, I went there. But you know what, you’re better off without it, trust me. I’ve met your boss.” He pauses. “And I’m sorry about your internship, I know how much it represented for you, and I feel awful for not seeing that and helping you. And uni… well, I don’t know. I guess it’s something that we can deal with later. But Isak…”

He gets up and comes over, crouches at his level, still staring intently.

“You haven’t lost any of us. I know it’s hard to believe, so you’ll just have to see for yourself. You haven’t lost me. I promise.”

Without waiting for an answer, he engulfs him in another all encompassing hug, his arms snaking around his back, pulling him tight against his chest. For a moment, Isak lets his head rest in the crook of his neck, sighs almost contentedly.

Even reluctantly leaves for uni half an hour later, after making Isak promise to call him, should he need anything. To which Isak replied that he’s not a baby. He’s grateful though, in ways he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to express. Not just for Even’s caring, but also for his parents’, all too willing to help him when they barely know him, when he hurt their son in a way that makes him want to throw up.

Even’s mother – “please call me Sigrid” – doesn’t mention that, even though she must surely know. She greets him with a kind smile when she comes in at 15h, checks for his temperature and changes his bandages. His hand still looks like it went through a meat grinder and for all Even’s mother’s delicacy, he has to bite back cries of pain. He still feels sore, sneezes way too often and coughs pathetically but she seems to think he’s doing alright, given that he’s just spent a few days on the street.

She fusses a little about food, tries to get him to eat a little more, and he has to swallow the lump in his throat when it reminds him of own mother. He misses her, misses the way she was with him when he was a child. Gentle and caring, always soft spoken, making sure to tend to his every scrap and wound, kissing the pain better, kissing his forehead goodnight. She’d always be there for him, even when she was unwell, before her condition started to take its toll and she found herself trapped in the torments of mental illness, deprived of the support of her family.

In this moment, the longing is almost a physical ache, as if his whole body, the very core of his being, needs her presence to function. The fear and shame are too strong still, so he doesn’t do anything about it, lets is gnaw at his flesh, lets the anxiety whirl around in his head.

Mrs. Bech Naesheim – Sigrid – has to be one of the most understanding people Isak’s ever met, not that he’s met all that many people, really. She doesn’t prod, doesn’t overwhelm him with questions and enquiries. She gives him space, leaves him be and remains unobtrusively around, working on a stack of paper that looks suspiciously like student copies.

But there is so much guilt and unsaid accusation Isak can take.

“Hum, Mrs. Bech Næsheim?” He doesn’t think he’ll ever find the confidence to call her Sigrid. She seems to understand that because she huffs a laugh at him. “Do you need something, honey?”

The endearing word pierces something in his chest, and he doesn’t quite know whether to laugh or cry about it.

“Can I… Can I talk to you?”

She’s wearing a pair of thick, black rimmed glasses, which she pushes up her nose, and fixes him with a gentle smile. He sits across from her, clutching a the glass of water he’s taken to carrying around.

Isak’s not brave, never has been. He’s always run from problems and confrontations, unless backed into a corner. But he knows this is one instance when he has to swallow his pride and cowardice, and face the consequences of his actions.

“I…” He hesitates. “I don’t think I can stay here,” he says after a while. He looks at her briefly, notices the widening of her eyes, and immediately averts his gaze. “I mean, you’ve done so much, and Even…” He sighs. “I’ve been horrible to Even, I’m sure he’s told you, I’ve said things to him…”

He shudders, his brief bout of courage already failing him. She must take pity on him, for some strange reason, and speaks.

“I won’t lie to you Isak, he told me what you said. And he was… Let’s just say that as his mother, it hurt me to see him like this. Your words caused him a lot of pain.”

He closes his eyes, hangs his head low. How he wishes the floor would open and swallow him whole. He wills himself not to sniffle pathetically, but feels tears of shame burning his eyes. Or maybe, it’s the idea that somehow, causing Even pain hurts him in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

A soft hand on this makes him look up again. Even’s mum is crouching before him, just like her son was a few hours ago.

“Honey, I’m not saying that to make you feel bad. It doesn’t make all of it okay, but I know you didn’t mean them and I know you already apologised to Even. I’m telling you this because I know you care about Even, and he cares a great deal about you too. What I want you to know, is that being here with us is a first step. Even forgives you. He isn’t angry, and neither am I. You don’t need my forgiveness, Isak, because it’s not mine to give. But I give it to you anyway. I forgive you, sweetheart.”

Finally, he meets her eyes through blurry tears and is overwhelmed by the infinite kindness in them. He nods mutely, throat too tight to form any word. She runs a soothing hand on his back.

“Stay with us for a few days, honey, I don’t think you should be alone right now, and Even needs to go to class.”

He nods again. That’s the only thing he can do.

This, and one other thing he’s delayed too long now.

“I’ll… I’ll let you work.”

She looks at with searching eyes, then ruffles his hair a little.

“Okay, go rest honey. Even will be home soon.”

  
  


Back in the guest room, he sits on the bed. He and Even changed the sheets before he left, so it all smells wonderfully inviting. He can’t rest though, not yet. He stares at the bedside table for a while, wills himself to move, find some courage again.

His old, almost completely destroyed phone is there, fully charged, and, by a stroke of luck that’s closer to a miracle than anything else, still working.

The screen is even more damaged than before, but it still lights up when Isak takes it and swipes it. It barely takes a few seconds before he’s dialling a number. The reply is immediate.

“Isak?”

Fresh tears roll down his face, and he briefly wonders if he’ll ever stop crying now he’s started. He gulps painfully, and speaks with a trembling voice.

“Hey mum.”

  
  


  
  



	5. Chapter 5

_Life did throw everything that it could throw_

When he gets home that evening after his late Child Psychology class, Even finds his parents in a quiet conversation and Isak is nowhere to be seen. The guest room is locked, and his knocks yield no answer.

He tries not to dwell on what might have caused Isak to retreat into himself again, convinces himself that the young man will eventually come to him. So he settles on making dinner with his dad they’re both very aware of how much he needs a distraction, something which his father never fails to provide. They tease each other gently and trade anecdotes while his mum works quietly in the background until the knot in his stomach loosens somewhat.

Isak doesn’t come down until dinner, and when he does, it’s with a barely audible shuffle, head kept low, and a heavy wall of silence around him.

It’s their first dinner together, the four of them, and no matter how hard he or his dad try, there is no coaxing him out further than the polite answers he can get away with. He does eat a little, probably more out of polite gratitude than anything else, if Even were to hazard a guess. His eyes are red and puffy, hands shaking a little, but no one mentions it.

He makes to follow him as soon as they’re done eating, hoping to pull his roommate out of the dark cloud engulfing him but his mother stops him with a subtle shake of her head. He stills, the cold fingers of fear ensnaring his chest.

“He needs to be alone right now, sweetheart. You’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

The knowledge that she’s right, and that he promised himself not to be an overwhelming presence does little to quell the fear that this looks like a step back for the both of them, which he finds all the more disconcerting just when they’re finally connecting on a deeper level than shallow superficial friendship.

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night, he tosses and turns, and wakes up more tired than he was the day before. The kitchen is empty and dark, the eerie silence unsettling. Every little noise he makes rattles his brain. He’s never done great with complete silence, has always hate how loud his thoughts echo in his brain when the world around him is muted.

He’s still blinking blearily over his bowl of cereal when a presence makes him look up. Isak is there, standing uncertainly across from him, looking exhausted, hair sticking in every direction, one of Even’s old baggy shirts hanging limply off his slight frame.

“I’m sorry about dinner yesterday. I called my mum and…” he murmurs, voice still raw. He heard him suffer a few more painful sounding coughing fits the night before.

Even feels a bit stupid now, and maybe a little childish, for immediately jumping to the conclusion that Isak was shutting him out again so soon after their conversation. He still has yet to learn not to automatically jump to conclusions when the guy is concerned.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks, not bothering to hide the relief and gentleness surging through his body.

He gets another helpless shrug in response as Isak makes himself a cup of tea. The sky is dark outside and they’re the first ones up, his parents about to come downstairs in a few minutes. It’s early, he’s got classes at 8, but all he can think about is the young man looking at him with sorrow in his eyes. Isak should still be asleep, but he assumes his insomnia is back in full force now.

“She cried a lot,” Isak finally admits. “I didn’t tell her everything, but… She knows enough, and now she feels awful.”

Even doesn’t say anything, hopes Isak takes his silence as the invitation to continue it actually is. He watches staring down at the mug of burning hot tea in his hand, tongue stuck between his lips.

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell her anything. I didn’t want her to worry. But now…”

He looks infinitely sad, probably sadder than Even’s ever seen him, and it reminds him of their conversation after Christmas, when Isak had seemed so happy to have spent it with his mother. As far as he’s aware, notwithstanding the family he found himself, she’s the only one he’s got left and he knows their relationship is rocky at best.

“I used to the same thing,” Even says in a murmur, his eyes lowered on his bowl. Leaves the rest unsaid.

He shrugs helplessly, looks up. There is little else to say, really. That keeping all the hurt to himself lead him to the hospital with his parents sobbing by his side. That he almost lost everyone he loved. That he never wants anyone to worry, but it always somehow makes things so much worse. It has almost destroyed him completely a few times before he finally learned his lesson.

It’s all so simple, insultingly so. He knows Isak understands now. He’s learning his lesson too. He’s staring at him in the eye, expression sorrowful. Like he knows, like he feels how it feels. Like he’s just realised how similar they are.

For once, the silence doesn’t feel so stifling. It’s not a black hole, a void sucking all sound and light and everything. It’s not a full, heavy curtain either, constricting his lungs and clouding his thoughts. It’s something different entirely. A pocket universe that’s just them, maybe.

“Fuck,” Isak says. “It’s too early for this shit.”

He barks out a surprised laugh, his thoughts derailed by the incongruous words. Isak smiles at him, a little uncertain, but hopeful. He wants to work on making that smile bigger, longs for the little gap between his front teeth to make an appearance.

Isak sips his tea, grimaces a little, squishy nose scrunching up.

“It’s cold.” he says, a little dismayed.

They don’t talk any more about it and Even goes to shower as Isak reheats his tea.

He’s making his way out the front door, fifteen minutes later, bundled up in his warmest coat, when a hand grabs his wrist.

“Hey…”

Isak is licking his lips nervously. He pulls back, wraps his arms around himself.

“About what you said… You’re right. I just…”

He frowns a little, obviously trying to pick out his next words carefully. He does this thing with his lips again. The one he does when he’s nervous or undecided. When did he start noticing that?

“I need to stop pushing people away and let them in. Let my mum in. And you. If you want.”

Fighting the bubble of happiness is useless, he knows, so he lets it soar, lets his heart grow too big for his chest, lets a bright grin take over his face. He’s sure it makes him look silly, but he doesn’t care. He envelops Isak in a warm hug before he has time to protest.

“Thank you so much. You have no idea how much it means.”

Isak can’t have any idea, really, because he himself doesn’t, he reasons.

“Ugh. You’re chocking me, you giant octopus,” huffs the younger man.

He chuckles, tightens his arms a little, on purpose, which get him a grumpy “oof”.

“You’ll be okay on your own, right?” he says as he reluctantly lets him go. “Help yourself to the DVDs and books…”

Isak rolls his eyes at that. He missed that.

“I hope they’re not as boring as the stuff you’ve made me watch!” he says, impish smile belying his words.

He turns around, so Isak won’t see the smile tugging at his lips, threatening to overcome his entire face.

“You know you love those movies,” he says as he starts walking away.

“In your dreams,” shouts Isak from a distance.

It’s his first glimpse of the old Isak. The one who gave him shit about his taste in movies, the one pretended to hate stuff just to rile him up, the one who fell asleep on his shoulder that one time.

It’s still dark outside, the sun won’t be up for a few hours. But he knows that it will, eventually. In more ways than one.

  
  


So they find something. A rhythm of sorts, not smooth by any means, their pocket universe, shaky more often than not. Isak opens up, not much, but enough for Even to know that they’ll be okay, in the end, however long it takes. He still retreats into himself, still lets his self-loathing – he’s sure that’s what it is – take over, but lets Even pull him out, sometimes with the help of his mother.

It seems Isak can’t deny her anything. Whether it’s due to the gaping hole in his relationship with his own mother, or simply a testimony of Even’s mum unending, relentless kindness, he doesn’t know. But he’s happy happy for it all the same.

They don’t have more heavy discussions after that Thursday morning, although he knows many more of those await them. He thinks they both need a little break from the emotional burdens for at least a few days.

Watching Isak interact with his parents has to be the highlight of his day now. He was afraid at first, that they might resent him for the way he hurt their son just over week ago – although the memory of their fight feels more distant than it probably should. But he knows that they don’t have it in them, they’re not made that way. And when Isak comes out of his shell the tiniest bit, they welcome him, arms wide open, with so much warmth he thinks his skittish flatmate might just combust from it. They’re both enamoured with him, have been since they met him back in November really and it’s hilarious to watch Isak flush under his parents’ mother-hen like attention.

On Friday, his coughs finally subsides, and although he’s still sickly thin, he looks healthier than he has in weeks. His dad takes him to the doctor to get his hand checked. It still looks a little too gnarly, mottled with scraps, yellow and blue spots. It’s not broken though, which they’re all happy to hear.

Without much needed nudging, he progressively eats a little more. He cooks for them as much as he can, and washes the dishes when he doesn’t - despite their protests. He’s unendingly polite and unassuming and forever endears himself to his father when he mentions Even’s film snobbishness as an offhand joke.

It’s inevitable then, that he agrees when his parents ask he let Isak chose their film for the evening, if only to see what happens. Not expecting to be put on the spot, the young man flounders, stammers a little, before muttering that what he actually loves is documentaries, which gets him some gentle ribbing that he takes in stride, perhaps a tad more gratefully than Even would expect. In the end, they all settle on _Travelling Birds_ , because Even loved this movie as a child and Isak has never seen it.

Of course, he tries to pretend he’s not watching Isak’s fascinated reaction more than the movie itself, and he thinks he’s quite successful. Until he meets his father’s eyes.

He’s thankfully saved from having to justify himself – which he doesn’t need to, really, he’s just making sure Isak is enjoying himself – by the screen of his phone coming to life.

Fumbling to pick it up, he almost falls right off the couch in a mess of flailing limbs, and excuses himself to his room when he sees Julie’s picture displaying brightly.

“Hey!” he exclaims, a little breathless.

“Hey stranger,” she chuckles.

“What’s up?” He rubs his neck, feeling a little foolish at the forced casual greeting.

“Was checking that you were still alive.”

There’s no malice or resentment in her voice, but the sound of her distant words stir the guilt he’s been trying to ignore. They haven’t talked in over a week. They’ve both been busy, they know that, but he thinks he should have at least been more concerned about it.

“Yeah, sorry… Got a little caught up in… Everything.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” she lets out a small giggle, that exact one that tends to make heat pool in his belly. Except it sounds a little forced, weariness seeping in the cracks of an imperfect happy mask.

“How are you? How’s little David?”

She sighs, and the rawness of her voice when she updates him on the case is telling him how tired and anxious she really is.

“I’m good. Tired, you know. We got the dad. But the mother is still fighting tooth and nail, kicking up a fuss about her rights as a mother… He’s been… He’s incredible, Ev. He’s been through so much, and yet… He’s going to go with his aunt in Tromsø. They’ve got a room ready for him and everything. He showed me pictures, he was so excited…”

Her voice breaks a little and Even has to swallow the lump in his throat at the image of this tiny six year old with his black eye and broken arm finally having a reason to smile.

“So, he’ll be okay?”

“Yeah. The mum is going down too, it’s a matter of days we think, she knows it too, for all her indignation.”

“That’s incredible Jules!”

“Yeah… I’m happy for him, I really am.”

He smiles, although a little subdued, her relief is palpable.

“How’s Isak?” she asks after a short silence.

“He’s… better. Trying. It’ll take a while to…”

He thinks about what he wants to say. Being back to normal isn’t exactly an option. There was never normalcy between them, not that it means anything in the first place. Normalcy doesn’t exist, he’s learned, it’s just a vague concept people invented to make themselves feel better and put whatever meaning they want into. Another way of separating _us_ and _them_. Even wouldn’t know normalcy if it hit him in the face. And he doubt Isak would either.

No, what they need is something that works for them. Comfort. Balance. He realises that as he’s trying to come up with an answer for Julie. Their apartment was supposed to be a safe place, but now he’s almost certain it never was, for either of them. And perhaps it’ll take a lot work, from them both, for it to finally happen.

She seems to understand his hesitation, and doesn’t begrudge him the lack of proper answer.

“Does this mean you can take me out on a date next Friday? And maybe spend the night over?”

He very nearly tells her no, he can’t, he doesn’t want to leave Isak alone, and immediately berates himself for the thought, knowing very well how angry it would make the younger man at being treated as helpless child.

And he really does miss Julie.

“That sounds great, actually,” is what he ends up answering.

Something loosens in him as he says the words, and he doesn’t hear Julie sigh with relief, but her tone is much lighter as they talk a little more, bickering lightly about what movies they want to see, discussing updates in their respective friends’ lives. He hears about Becca’s latest rescue, an old german shepherd they found on the street. He’s only met her a couple of times and visited her place of work once, they’d immediately clicked over their love of animals and he always enjoys her stories. In turn, he shares the news about Mutta’s newfound girlfriend, to which Julie replies that she knew something was going on with him.

They talk, and talk some more, until a yawn escapes them both and they bid each other goodnight, promising to be better at keeping in touch. By the time he puts his phone away, the house is silent. The door across his own is shut, a weak light filtering beneath it.

Resisting the temptation to knock and call to Isak, he stares at it for a few seconds, shakes his head, goes to brush his teeth.

Padding quietly through the darkened hallway, he stops one more at Isak’s door on his way back to his own room. He pauses, listen for anything that might indicate his flatmate is awake, finds nothing but silence.

  
  


Surprisingly, Isak is the one who seeks him out in the morning. He’s quiet throughout breakfast, though not altogether closed off, seeming more lost in thought than anything else. He eats a little more than the day before – with gentle prodding from his parents – but Even catches him staring into the distance more than once.

He watches his mother change the young man’s bandages after he gets out of the shower. They talk in low voices but the few words Even can make out inform him that she’s teaching him how to do it himself. Isak is frowning a little in concentration, his eyes following her every move. He looks like a pupil listening obediently to his teacher.

She puts a hand on his arm, and this time he doesn’t flinch, leans into it a little. Deciding to leave them be, he goes up to his room.

As soon as he’s lying on his bed, arms crossed behind his head, headphones, playing Ben Howard songs, his thoughts drift back to the scene he’s just witnessed. He’s never seen his mother acting that way with anyone, other than himself. He knows it’s not for a lack of empathy on her part. She and his dad are the kindest, most gentle people he knows, and they love children. He also knows that not being able to have more children has always been her biggest regret, although she’s never said it in those words. But he’s heard her sighs, caught bits of conversations with his father, seen her longing looks. So it’s no surprise to see her mothering Isak – he remembers how taken she was with him when she met him last year. Now it does stir up something in him, something both familiar and new.

He’s not jealous – that much he knows. He could never envy Isak who, despite pretending otherwise, seems almost desperate for affection. Blaming his mother for her obvious liking of his flatmate is unfathomable, would make him the worst of hypocrites.

And yet, not being able to put a word on that odd feeling bothers him.

In an attempt to distract himself, he reaches for his sketchpad on his bedside table and lets his pencil travel, creating lines and shapes. Clouds are forming, big, grey, soft, a little blurry. That’s one of his little secrets: he enjoys drawing clouds, loves coming up with new shapes, new shades, new colours for them. Whenever he’s drawing a landscape, he always starts with the clouds. Empty skies scare him, maybe.

A whole scene comes together. A person, a man or a woman perhaps, he’s not sure – it’s irrelevant - is sitting at the top of a hill, their back resting against a lone tree, knees drawn up. The character is staring at the clouds above, picking out shapes, making up their own stories.

Someone knocks on his door, the sound pulls him out of his dreams.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Isak.”

“Come in, man.”

He takes off his headphone and sits up just as Isak enters his room. He shuffles a little, that same pensive look back in his eyes.

“Could we talk?”

He tries to reign in his enthusiasm – a difficult task for him – reminds himself that overwhelming Isak is the last thing they need. He schools his face in what he hopes is an open smile and not a manic grin. Crossing his legs, he pats the bed.

Curiosity is threatening to get the better of him, it usually does when his roommate is concerned, but he chooses to remain silent and let the younger man lead the conversation. He settles for watching him sit, his back against the wall, allowing him to observe his profile as he takes in the room around him. It’s the first time he’s ever been in here, and Even watches with rapt attention for his reaction.

He follows Isak’s eyes to the old movie posters, the drawings, the bookcase full of children’s books. And wonders what he sees.

“You really fucking love Disney.”

There’s a small wrinkle and roll of eyes, but the tiny smile playing on his lips is steady, and real.

“Don’t diss Disney, Isak. _Beauty and the Beast_ is a masterpiece,” Even says with a chuckle.

“Ugh. Of course you’d go for the cheesiest love story ever,” is the grumpy remark he gets. “I prefer _The_ _Lion King_.”

He’s not surprised; he’s not. Looking at him now, it’s easy to imagine a smaller version of Isak entranced by the adventures of Simba.

“I bet you know all the lyrics by heart.”

“What? Of course I don’t. I don’t remember any song,” Isak protests, a little too quick to be honest.

“Of course.”

Even smirks at him in a way that he knows tells him he doesn’t believe him for a second, but doesn’t insist. He’s not sure if their friendship is strong enough for that yet.

“I like those drawings though.”

“Those are old ones. I was like, fourteen.”

Isak nods mutely. If he feels the weight of Even’s gaze staring at his profile, he doesn’t say anything. It’s stopped raining outside, and a timid sun is coming out from behind a curtain of clouds. The pale morning light falls delicately on the younger man, illuminates his hair in soft blond hues, accentuates the sharpness of his cheeks, his pointy nose and sensual lips.

Isak clears his throat, still not quite looking at him.

“Your parents are amazing, you know.”

He shakes his head a little, tries to bring his mind back on track. Yes, he knows. He doesn’t say it, waits for Isak to go on.

“I… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank them enough for… everything. Especially after…”

He trails off. Even really wants to speak up, make him understand that his parents’ don’t expect anything, that it’s just what they do, that they simply care about Isak, love him, possibly.

Isak sighs.

“They’ve been so good to me, letting me stay. But…”

He hesitates, finally turns to him.

“I think I want to go back to the apartment.”

Oh. He can’t say it’s entirely unexpected, but he still somehow feels blindsided by the admission.

“Are you sure? I mean, my parents don’t mind having you here, you know.”

Isak nods. His hand is playing with the hem of the thick woolly jumper – one of his dad’s.

“Yeah, I know. And like I said, I can never thank them enough. But. I don’t know. I love it here, but it feels like I’m hiding. I don’t want to do that any more. I want to figure things out. I want to get better.”

There might be some sense into what Isak he’s saying, though it’s still a little daunting. If he thinks hard enough, he can understand his reasoning. Perhaps they’ve both been hiding, tucked away safely in the cocoon of his childhood home. Maybe it is time to go back. Whatever the case might be, his mind is stuck on those last words. He replays them over and over in his head. It might be his mind playing tricks, but he’s certain his heart is beating louder than ordinary.

“Have you told them?”

“No, I wanted to tell you first. I mean, you can stay, I don’t mind.”

This time, he knows he needs to cut off that train of thought. He needs Isak to understand. So he puts a hand on his shoulder, grasp him firmly in an attempt to anchor him and convey the certainty he feels, and meets the guarded green gaze.

“No. I’m coming with you. I told you, I’m here, okay?”

Although he tries to hide it, the relief on Isak’s face is obvious, his expression immediately relaxes into a grateful smile. His eyes search his for a second.

“Thank you.”

  
  


They tell his parents at lunch. Neither of them seem overly surprised by Isak’s announcement, simply nod at him as he explains his reasons. They both have matching encouraging smiles on their faces which probably help Isak overcome his initial shyness. He thinks they know him well enough that despite his irritating tendency of wanting to do everything on his own, he’s come to appreciate their opinion. It’s probably why they choose their words with a little more care than usual around him. He’s relieved to hear they have no objection – not exactly sure how Isak would react to that. The ground they’ve been treading on is still more than a little shaky.

Even’s dad offers to drive them back to the apartment in the morning. Isak has decided to go back to uni as soon as Monday, and although Even has a few reservations, he knows not to pick that particular battle right now. It’s a topic they’ll have to broach eventually, but there is little doubt in his mind that they’re not ready to cross that bridge yet.

He’s doing the dishes, humming a song that’s been on his mind for a couple of days, when he sees from the corner of his eye his mother pulling Isak with her in the living room. They’re still talking quietly when he’s done, so he makes a quick retreat to his bedroom to avoid the temptation of eavesdropping.

A soft knock wakes him up. He’s fallen asleep right there and then on his bed, without realising it. Standing up a little groggily, he opens the door to his hesitant looking flatmate.

“Do you want to go for a walk? With me?”

Isak is wearing a thick coat and a pair of shoes he suspect belong to his father, his hands buried deep in the side pockets, a big scarf masking the bottom half of his face. The hope in his eyes is unmistakable.

He hasn’t left the house once since he got there, and he has never, since they’ve known each other, asked Even to go for a walk together. The offer stuns him a little, though he recover quick enough to accept enthusiastically.

  
  


The first breath he takes is deep, and exaggerated, like they’ve spent the last few days locked up inside. The sun is fairly low in sky, weak light shining of the gleaming wet pavement, late winter crisp air biting at his exposed skin. The neighbourhood is a quiet one, suburb houses half hidden in neatly tended garden, mostly populated by families and retired couples. A few people must have had the same idea, bundled up in warm clothes, enjoying the first rain free day in weeks.

Besides him, Isak walks in silence, hands still shoved in his pockets, a healthy flush on his cheeks, his hair a mess of curls under one of Even’s old beanies. He’s looking around, and once again, Even wonders what those eyes see. Does he enjoy the same peaceful quiet, does he look at the family houses with sadness, feeling the hollowness left by the absence of his own? Does seeing children walk with their parents remind him of his own childhood, of hopefully happier times?

He still knows so very little about his upbringing, has to tame waves of curiosity, reign in fires of questions burning his tongue. His expression is hard to decipher, but his mind seems elsewhere, miles and miles away from here.

So he braces himself for another conversation, because he knows now that while Isak certainly doesn’t mind extended periods of silence, this particular one is heavy with unspoken words.

“You have a therapist, right?”

This time, the unexpected query throws him off, and he doesn’t bother hiding it. Isak sends him a quick look, but doesn’t back away.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t know exactly where this is going, but it’s important enough that they’ve been walking in silence for almost twenty minutes. Whatever is on Isak’s mind is clearly bothering him.

“I’ve had one since I got diagnosed, when I was seventeen.”

The young man hums non-committally.

“Did it help?”

He has to think about his answer, not because it’s not obvious, but because it matters to Isak.

“It has, a lot. Still does. Doctor Lund is amazing,” he pauses briefly. “I still see her regularly. She… She helps me put a perspective on things, get out of my own head, this kind of thing.”

He watches Isak nod, processing his words.

“Your mum gave me someone’s number,” he eventually says after another stretch of silence.

A dog runs up to him. A big, friendly looking golden retriever, wagging his tail at Isak who immediately bends down to pet it. He ruffles the dog’s hair with a low chuckle and it slobbers all over his hand before running back to its owners across the street. Even sends them a little wave and a friendly smile.

“Do you think talking to someone would help you?” he asks after a while.

Isak sighs a little.

“I don’t know. I mean… It probably would, right?”

He’s about to reply when the young man speaks up again.

“After that thing with the girls, I got… They sent me to see a doctor. Like, once a month. To talk about… stuff. The insomnia and the… Harassment thing.”

He gulps painfully, remember Eva’s words with disturbing clarity. It’s the first time he’s heard Isak put a label on what happened to him in high school.

“The guy was… I don’t know. Professional, I guess. Got me a prescription for sleeping pills. That helped a little. But I don’t know. Talking to him made me feel stupid. I was basically losing sleep over a couple of rude messages on the internet.”

Even doesn’t know if he should look at him and offer any kind of reaction, or just stare ahead and let him go on. There is no way Isak deleted all his social media over a couple of rude messages only. He’s pieced enough of the story now to know with absolute certainty that Isak is downplaying what happened to him. It seems to be one of his default reaction, and he hates it.

He says nothing, wishes his mother was here to tell him what to do. He feels stupidly powerless in light of Isak’s confession.

“So, I don’t know. It didn’t really, solve anything I suppose. And there was this whole thing with me being asexual. But maybe…”

He forces a long breath out, comes to a decision, looks him in the eye.

“It took me three therapists to find the right one,” he says. “The first ones, they were nice. Professional, like you said. But they made me feel stupid too. Like I was a dumb teenager unable to control himself. It’s not anything they said, it’s just how I felt with them. It’s not something that’s easy to put into words.”

He hesitates. Isak is fixing him with a steady gaze, quietly absorbing his words, waiting.

“You’re not the same person you were back then, not exactly. Your situation is different, too. And I think… I think it could help. Talking. You don’t have to commit to anything. Just, maybe, give it a try?”

It’s almost strange how Isak doesn’t blink for a few seconds, how they’re both facing each other, stopped in the middle of the pavement, Even’s hand itching to grab him somehow. Then, a nod. An infinitesimal upward tug of his lips in a ghost of a smile. A longing passing in his eyes, brief, gone away in a gust of wind. A decision, maybe, or the embryo of one.

A whisper.

“Maybe.”

They walk to the end of the road. A cloud passes lazily before the sun. Soon, the trees will start to burgeon and the garden won’t look so dead any more. In the distance behind them, the golden retriever barks.

  
  


  
  



	6. Chapter 6

_Your face in the morning, it just glowed_

  
  


They’ve never gone back to the apartment together, at the same time. That’s the thought that crosses Isak’s mind as Even unlocks the door. It might be an odd thing for him to notice. It might also be a testimony to the state of their relationship before.

There’s a _before_ , now.

A couple of years ago, Isak saw his life divided in two chapters. There was before his mother started getting sick. The happy, innocent years. The normal childhood filled with games and books and hugs. And the after. His sister leaving, his dad growing distant and giving up on them altogether. On him.

Then came the thing. He hasn’t put a label on it, has a hard time figuring out when it started. So he just puts in under “the shit years”. Or high school. And that’s not fair, he knows. Summing up his three years of high school like this takes away the happy bits, of which there weren’t many, but still.

And now this. The other thing. He doesn’t want to call it a breakdown, but it’s probably the most accurate descriptive for it. It’s a little silly, and a lot simplistic, to think of his life as a series of before and after, but the rigid structure is somewhat comforting. Like it might allow him to change on a fundamental level – which he’s very much convinced, in his heart of hearts, is an illusion. But a pleasant one.

Just because he broke down in Even’s arms doesn’t mean his life is going to do a full turn around. But putting things that happened until then in the “before” category allows him some distance. Now, he’ll be able to try and work on moving on from all of that. At least, there’s hoping.

So crossing the threshold behind Even feels like a soft reset in a way. A second chance.

After setting the bags full of groceries Even’s parents bought for them, he takes off his shoes and places them besides the door with more care than he usual does. They’re technically not his. Even’s mum gave them to him – they belong to her husband – after seeing his old shitty trainers. He still feels weird about it, but at least the guilt eased off when he realised he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. After Liv told him, a smug, satisfied grin on her face, that she’d thrown his old shoes in the bin.

“Now, either you accept these shoes, or you go around barefoot. Your choice, Isak.”

He’d briefly fought the temptation to cross his arms, stand his ground and sulk, before sucking it up and gratefully accepting the gift. Her smile turned genuine then and he knew he’d done the right thing.

So yeah, wearing shoes he didn’t buy is strange, having to accept Even’s parents’ generosity is more than a little daunting, but at least, his feet are warm.

Also, Even’s been smiling non-stop for a few days, and he secretly, sort of wants to keep it that way.

He watches him let himself fall with a heavy thump on their couch, arms and legs spread wide, expression of pure content on his face.

“How I’ve missed you. Best couch in the world.”

Isak rolls his eyes at him, will never admit to anyone that he enjoys Even’s ridiculous antics. Backpack clutched tightly in his hand, he trudges silently to his room.

It’s silly, how his heart beats louder and louder in his ears with every step he takes. It should be a non-issue, shouldn’t even register on his mind. It’s just a room. But it does.

Grey and gloomy rays of the still weak sun peer in through the lone window, uncertain, almost shy, casting hesitant shadows on the bare, white walls.

The wall of drawings – of Even’s drawings – the sole decoration is a glaring exception on those otherwise unremarkable walls. He remembers taking down his periodic table of elements at some point, it’s probably carefully folded somewhere between two textbooks. On the desk: a crumpled piece of paper, the letter he tried to write. And next to it, the drawing.

He doesn’t need to look at it to remember. Every line, every curve etched into his brain, and with it, the wave of despair that had washed away that tenuous hope he’d allowed himself to cling to. The memory of it, the utter emptiness that had swallowed him whole is enough to bring a familiar prickling sensation behind his eyes.

Willing the memories away, he forces his gaze to travel to the suitcase, standing there against his bed, unmoved, filled with his worldly possessions. Most of everything he still owns is in there – not quite thrown haphazardly – because he was still a bit of an organised freak, even in his feverish delirium, but not as orderly as it otherwise would be.

His eyes are drawn to his pillow. His blue pillow, one of the last remnants of his childhood, his tether to happy memories, lying askew on his bed.

And finally, his gloves. Even’s gift, his thoughtful present that Isak didn’t dare take with him. Or didn’t want to, he’s not so sure of his reasoning any more. It had felt sacred, somehow. And symbolic. Leaving them here in this room might have been a way of preserving them, and the untouched moment of Even giving them to him.

A warm, solid hand on his shoulder, and a shiver runs through his body. Even stands behind him, radiating heat and concern. He doesn’t have to look at him to know that.

“You okay?”

He lets out a long, trembling exhale, knows that the automatic answer on his tongue doesn’t work any more. Not on Even, and not on himself. He gulps.

“It’s stupid,” he eventually says.

“What?”

His back is still turned to his flatmate. He licks his lips, fingers fiddling with the hem of his jumper. He’s too warm and too cold, his bruised hand aching again.

“It doesn’t feel like home, this room.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said the words alone. He’s never even let the thought to fully form, and now, the confession feels jarring, leaves him breathless. It would be satisfying to finally be able to put it into words. Instead, it reopens a gaping wound he didn’t know was still there.

He tries to staunch the bleeding with words, it makes it worse.

“You know, I never bothered to decorate it, because I knew I’d be gone before it would make sense. I figured there was no point, because I’d fuck up or something, and I would have to look for another place, and…”

The hand on his shoulder tightens, spins him around. He finds himself facing Even, looking down at him ever so slightly. He’s frowning, clear blue eyes fixed on his, the corner of his mouth pulled down.

“Hey.”

They’re so close he feels a warm breath on his face. It should be weird, he should hate it like he usually balks at the thought of physical closeness. And yet, he finds it oddly comforting. Even in his personal space doesn’t feel like an intruder. He never has.

“This is your home, Isak. It’s always been your home. You belong here. Okay?”

Even’s gaze searches his, looks for something inside, maybe. He looks like he wants to say more, and Isak thinks he can read between the lines, read into his eyes.

The tension leaves his body suddenly, without warning, and leaves him sagging, boneless.

Even must sense this, as he gives him a little shake, and a tentative smile.

“Come on. Let’s unpack everything. I’ll help you.”

He pulls Isak with him, only stopping short when his eyes stop on the green gloves. He takes them gingerly, stares at them with a thoughtful expression.

“I was afraid of losing them if I took them with me,” mumbles Isak.

Even looks up, gaze suddenly sharp, something passing in his eyes for the briefest moment, before turning away and setting them gently on the pillow, which he puts back at the head of the bed. He turns back to Isak, smiling gently.

“Let’s do this, homie,” he says with a ridiculous gangsta voice.

Isak doesn’t roll his eyes at him, but it’s a near thing. He settles for shoving him lightly, before sitting next to him on the floor and opening his suitcase.

Part of him wants to tell him that it’s all useless, that he’ll be gone – for real this time – by the end of the month if he doesn’t come up with a solution to his money problem. But a bigger part, the main part, the one who longs to keep Even smiling, clings to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll find something. That somehow, everything will be alright. So he swallows down his anxiety and keeps his mouth shut.

In return, Even doesn’t say anything when they pull out clothes that have seen better days. Most of them are threadbare or have holes. The only ones who seem new are recent birthday or Christmas gifts from Eskild and Linn.

It’s a good compromise: they wilfully dance around serious topics and keep their conversation light. Isak pretends not to enjoy Even’s childish enthusiasm and gentle ribbing – especially at how many science books he owns – and Even doesn’t call him on his outright lie. He thinks they work well.

As he puts the last of his books back in a neat row on his desk, a small slip of paper slides from between two pages. He’s too slow, and it’s Even who catches it and holds it to him. He makes to grab it from him when he recognises it and freezes.

The older man must have noticed his odd reaction, his expressions changing into one of concern.

“Isak?”

He hesitates. Instinct and reason fighting for dominance, pulling him into separate directions. It’s such a stupid thing, that piece of paper. Just a few words scribbled in his chicken scratch. He had written them as a last resort, as if they could somehow make up for his shortcomings, for not being a better friend.

He takes the paper from Even’s unresisting fingers, almost crumples it, pauses. Even might disagree, but the fact is, he owes him. He owes him a lot, least of all, the truth. Many truths, indeed. He wants to be done lying.

Gathering more courage than he knows he has, he holds out the little slip to his flatmate again.

“It’s yours,” he mutters, forcing his eyes to meet Even’s.

Even doesn’t say anything. Opens his mouth in surprise, his own gaze travelling from Isak’s hand to his eyes. Slowly, almost carefully, he takes it.

“Is that a drawing?”

Isak shakes his head.

“Read it.”

Even looks at him again, not quite frowning. Curious, more than anything. He unfolds the paper with more care than necessary. Isak wants to turn away so he doesn’t have to see his reaction, but he’s always been a masochist, so he follows the movement of Even’s eyes as he reads the words.

When he looks back up, he seems even more confused than before.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s…”

He stumbles on his own words, hesitates once again, takes a small breath.

“It’s for you. For your birthday. I didn’t have any money, so… It’s like… A coupon, you know? Like, you pick a day and then you just… Don’t worry about anything. And you can ask me anything and I’ll do it. Like, I do your chores and I cook, and stuff. Breakfast in bed, even. I mean, if you want. You don’t have to, but…”

He cuts himself off. His mouth feels cottony, his brain scrambling words, he’s not explaining himself well.

“I didn’t have money to get you a gift. So I thought, I could give you a day.”

He sighs, shutting his eyes. How could he ever think this was a good idea?

“I’m sorry. This is stupid. I’ll get you something better when I have money, I swear. It was just bad timing and…”

“Isak.”

The firmness of Even’s voice puts an abrupt end to his spiralling. His flatmate is looking at him with an expression he’s not sure he can pinpoint, but at least it doesn’t look mocking or disappointed.

“I don’t want anything else. It’s the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me.”

There’s no way Even means those words, or at least, no way they’re empirically true. Even’s got great friends and the most amazing parents one could ask for, so Isak knows for a fact that he’s either lying in order not to upset him, or simply not remember the real amazing presents he’s bound to have had over the years. Still, the words have the desired comforting effect.

And Even’s still looking at him with that weird expression Isak can’t place.

The other man blinks, shakes his head, lets out a rueful laugh.

“Man, you’re something else, you know?”

Not sure what he means by that, Isak simply stares wordlessly as he folds the paper again. And then, Even grabs another paper. The drawing.

“Can I take this, too?”

He shrugs, still trying to regain his footing. Something in the way Even’s been looking at him has unsettled… something in him, though he would be hard pressed to say what, exactly.

His flatmate is staring at his wall of drawing now.

“I love that you’ve kept them all. That you put them up here. That’s… It means a lot.”

As a reflex, he wants to reply that’s it’s nothing. Yet he knows that it’s wrong in every sense of the word. It’s not nothing. It means something. It means he loves these drawings, but doesn’t know how to say it without sounding like an idiot, so he hangs them here instead. It means that he values Even’s friendship more than he knows how to express in word or thought. It means that sometimes, he loves that they don’t have to speak to understand each other. It means that Even’s here, that he wants to be here, that Isak wants to keep him here and be there as well. It means so much that Isak doesn’t have enough words in his vocabulary or enough thoughts in his head, and certain not enough courage to ever show it.

Even looks at him again, curious and pensive, like he’s trying to read a particularly resistant book.

“You know, I still have all of yours.”

At this, he can’t help the snort. Of all the things he expects Even to say, this is certainly not one of them.

“Seriously, you kept my stick figure drawings?” he drawls flatly.

“Of course. They’re funny. I like them, you know.”

He looks so genuinely affronted at the idea that he might have thrown them to the bin that Isak falters.

“I mean, I didn’t make a wall of them. I’ve put them in my drawer. But I like your idea, I think I might do the same.”

“Yeah. Because nothing screams cool and arty like a wall of stick figures.”

Even huffs at him, more indulgent that annoyed.

“Well, we both know I’m very cool and arty. So.”

Isak ignores him pointedly, or tries to – Even is a very difficult to ignore, it turns out – and finishes unpacking. Eventually, his flatmate shakes his head and joins him. He doesn’t say anything more than a few passing remarks here and there but Isak feels his gaze almost burning on the side of his face more than a few times. Together, they make a quick affair of putting everything back to where it used to be.

Surveying his room, Isak is hit by a dismaying wave of unsteady normalcy: it all looks exactly how it two weeks ago. Even his Table of Periodic Elements is back on the wall. And now, Even is looking around the room as well, a neutral expression on his face, and Isak can only imagine what he’s thinking. Probably how bare and devoid of personality it looks. It’s nothing like Even’s room at his parents, or even like Isak’s old childhood bedroom, where almost every inch of available wall space used to be covered with posters of planets and dinosaurs, young Isak’s two main devouring passions.

Even is looking at him again. He’s been doing that more and more lately, eyes searching for something, trying to solve a mystery that isn’t there maybe. And then he catches himself, face relaxing into a beaming smile, eyes crinkling.

“Want to help me make lunch?”

Isak tries for a smile of his own, albeit much smaller. He pretends debating the answer, pretends that the thought of escaping the room he’s just put into order isn’t a relieving one.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

They cook side by side, again, in companionable silence. Even turned the radio on as soon as they set foot in the kitchen and is now humming quietly to some catchy pop song Isak can’t identify. He finds it odd, paradoxical almost, how someone can be such a film snob and yet be close to obsessed with every silly, sugary tune he finds. He knows all the god damned words. Isak can’t find the logic in there, and it puzzles him.

Still, they work well together. They always do, moving around the kitchen like a well-oiled machine, and he enjoys that, finds comfort in this thing they have together. Even and Isak, making food.

He’s grateful for the distraction of Even’s off-key humming combined with the work at hand. It’s a more than welcome reprieve of having to think about how temporary it all is, how he only gets to enjoy this because of Even’s family’s generosity. They have enough food to last them a little over a week, maybe more if they ration it, although he doesn’t see how he could convince his flatmate to do that. There is also no way Even is going to let him get away with eating small portions now.

After that, they’re out. Isak can either pay for his share of the rent or for food, he hasn’t enough money to do both. Even knows that now, but has yet to say anything.

Give yourself a week.

Easy to say when Isak struggles to give himself a single minute. He needs to find a new job right now, that’s all there is to it. He has no other way of getting money. The days when he could ask his dad for money to help back when he still lived at Kollektivet are long gone.

“Fuck, I’d hate to be a zucchini right now.”

The voice pulls him out of his thought. Even is looking at him, a bemused grin stretching his lips. He’s stopped singing, whatever song was on has been replaced by the newscast.

Isak lowers his own gaze and oh. He opens his mouth but can’t find the words.

“I didn’t even think it was technically possible to cut slices so thin,” remarks the taller man, teasing lilt very obvious in his voice.

Isak huffs grumpily.

“Yeah well, I’m the master of chopping.”

He feels his face heat up immediately at his own absurdity, and promptly ignores Even’s guffaws in favour of looking for a pan.

  
  


“Ugh, I’m so full,” a stretching Even declares less than an hour later, rubbing his belly with no small amount of exaggeration.

Isak just hums in acquiescence. He’s been making an effort to eat more and more since last Tuesday, and though he hasn’t said it in so many words, he loves being able to eat proper meals again. He’s been enjoying the taste of food again, even looking forward to lunch and dinner. He thinks he might have gained some weight – which is probably a good thing he supposes – and hasn’t had any dizzy spell in a while.

He catches Even’s eyes on him and offers a tiny smile before gathering the dishes.

As they stand, shoulder to shoulder, Isak washing and Even drying, he finds himself almost leaning into his flatmate’s side, soaking up the warmth. They’re quiet, once again, after Even spent lunch talking about that book he’s been obsessed with. He’s borrowed these crime books from his mum, and has been more than happy to share his impression of them with Isak.

Isak doesn’t like crime books. He doesn’t read much fiction in general, with a few exceptions, but he does have a weakness for science fiction – good science fiction. So he offers his own take on a few books he’s read, which spurs Even into a long rant about science-fiction and movie adaptations.

And it inevitably leads to Even proposing to watch a movie, because of course it does.

“Only if it’s not a boring one.”

The genuinely scandalized expression on the older man’s face is so comical that he finds himself repressing a bark of laughter. Things between them might still be a little shaky, but he’s happy to know he can still easily rile him up.

He follows him to the living room, almost certain Even is muttering something about him being a heathen. Plopping down on the couch – he’s never admitting that he missed it, but oh, how he fucking missed that couch – he entertains himself by watching his flatmate browsing his film collection. Something else he’s never going to admit – probably – is that he finds it both ridiculous and a little endearing that Even still owns and buys so many physical copies. He briefly ponders about the possible consequences of asking Even why he’s kept what is surely an old people’s habit, is tempted to really do just so, if only to enjoy his reaction.

The choice is taken out of his hands by a sudden exclamation and Even making his way back to the couch, film in hand.

“Here you go! You’ll love this one.”

Isak grabs the box from him and takes a quick look.

“It’s a French film,” he says, voice flat.

Even cocks an eyebrow, he looks dead serious. Or as dead serious as Even can look, which is admittedly not very.

“Do you have something against French cinema?”

“It’s boring.”

He knows he’s just being difficult at this point, and he should stop.

“Are you kidding me? What French films have you watched?”

“Boring ones.”

He can’t help it, really. Even makes it so easy.

“You really are a fucking gremlin, you know?”

They both freeze at the familiar nickname. Even’s affronted expression morphs into one of brief horror, quickly replaced by something sadder, softer.

“Sorry.”

He draws a shaky breath, forces himself to exhale, shoves the film back into Even’s hands.

“Yeah, well, you will be if it’s a shit film.”

Luckily, for the both of them, Even accepts the out for what it is and snorts.

“It’s a great movie. It’s about Jacques Cousteau. He was the one who invented scuba diving. He was a scientist, that’s right up your alley.”

Isak levels an unimpressed glare with him, hoping to convey what he thinks of Even’s bullshit, but the other man just grins, saunters over to the TV. Ignoring his annoyingly over enthusiastic roommate, the young man settles for making them both a cup of tea.

When he returns to the couch, Even accepts the warm mug with a much softer smile and a whispered “thank you”.

“Yeah well, I’m hoping it keeps you too busy to run commentary,” he gruffs.

Yeah, Even is definitely not the only one who can spout bullshit. They’re both very aware of that.

  
  


In his flatmate’s defence, the film is actually pretty good. He makes a show of crossing his arms and sighing very loudly every now and then, but really, he enjoys the beautiful photography, wide expanses of blue, breathtaking underwater sequences. Moreover, he’s intrigued by Cousteau’s relentless, almost pigheaded, decisions to push his crew harder for more discoveries. At some point, Cousteau’s wife is talking to some guy on the boat and Isak is jerked awake by a hand on his arm.

“Wha-”

“You fell asleep.”

Even’s awfully close, and awfully right. Isak blinks blearily at the dark TV screen, then at his roommate who’s looking strangely guilty.

“You drooled on me.”

“Oh, fuck.”

Isak scrambles backward, almost falls right off the couch on his ass, wiping frantically at his mouth.

“Hey, it’s fine don’t worry,” says Even with a placating motion. “You were right anyway, it wasn’t such a great film.”

This brings him pause. This is not something he thought he’d ever hear Even say, which means something is definitely off. As Even gets up to turn off the TV and put the film away, Isak racks his brain, tries to makes sense of what has just happened.

The only possible conclusion is that he most likely made Even uncomfortable. He supposes that’s fair, especially since it’s not the first time Isak’s fallen asleep a little too physically close for comfort, and he thinks he should probably apologise for it but can’t bring himself to utter the correct words. In any case, Even must know that Isak doesn’t mean anything by it, has no intention whatsoever to… The thought alone makes him shudder. Even knows Isak doesn’t do that. He knows. So it shouldn’t be an issue, really.

It’s strange to think that he’s grown so comfortable around the older man, as comfortable around him as he is around Linn and Eskild. Yet he knows that if he were here, his self-appointed guru, saviour and adopted big brother would tell him to be more mindful about people’s personal space, especially since he himself is so reluctant to let others in.

Unwilling to face the sudden awkward tension between them, Isak wastes no time fleeing to his room, stuttering about the amount of reading and studying he has to make up for. Burying himself in dozens of papers and articles doesn’t entirely work that day - this sudden slip up in their newfound dynamic more than a little off-setting – but it’s enough to keep his mind somewhat busy for a few hours. Until he has to face his flatmate once again for what might be their most awkward dinner yet.

  
  


  
  


Uni is uni. That is to say, it’s neither good nor bad, existing on a thin, fragile line, a purgatory in which he’s been trapped for a few months, both reassuring and terrifying, and oh so desperately bland.

He can’t exactly pinpoint the moment when it all changed, when his interest in biophysics waned and turned into a stifling sense of obligation.

It had been all he could think about for a very long time. The idea of going to uni, of undertaking the challenge of it. Even Sana had seemed impressed by his choosing Biophysics at first. His friends at looked at him with a flattering blend of incredulity and pride.

Uni had meant freedom. Start over. A new beginning. The opportunity to prove his worth, to make something of himself. He’d even thought about doing a PhD in Trondheim somewhere down the line. He had it all figured out, it was going to be brilliant.

Until it wasn’t. Until going to class became a chore, something that he not quite hated, but certainly didn’t enjoy any more. Until the internship he’d been dreaming of turned into his own personal hell, and his greatest failure.

And now he’s back for the first time in weeks, sitting in the auditorium for his Medical Application to Nuclear Physics class, shoulders hunched and head kept low, hoping that no one will call him out for disappearing without a trace. The girl sitting beside him looks vaguely familiar and keeps throwing him discreet glances from under her blond fringe.

He takes notes, as many as he can, although what little understanding he has makes him realise how much he’s missed. All the reading and studying he did the day before, after his awkward moment with Even doesn’t help. But Isak is nothing if not stubborn – even he can admit that – so he ploughs through and takes more notes.

If he pretends hard enough that everything is normal, maybe it will be.

Except it isn’t. And the brutal reminder comes in the form of lunch – or lack thereof – and running into one of his professors in the library.

When he left the flat that morning, Even was still blinking sleepily over his bowl of cereal and thankfully didn’t mention Isak the day before’s incident and he didn’t ask about his plans for lunch. After everything, not having to lie to him or worse, tell the truth, is a little relief he feels he’s allowed, for once.

And the truth is this: Isak can’t afford lunch. It’s fine, really. He’d gotten used to skipping lunch – skipping most meals in fact – before his stay at Even’s parents, so it won’t be difficult to do it again. Unfortunately, his stomach has yet to catch up with the plan and is growling painfully. Which is why he hastily makes his way to the library, having found long ago that books and studies are a pretty good distraction against paralysing hunger.

He’s got an hour and a half break before his next class – Biological Physics – so he settles in an isolated corner near a window and builds a nest of books. After half an hour of painstakingly working his way through a chapter on cellular biology and radiation, he decides to take a break. His old beat-up laptop has been having a hard time keeping up with his quick typing the past few months, so he’s gone back to handwriting everything, but with his hand still sore, he’s having trouble holding a pen for longer than a few minutes at a time. Slouching a little, he stretches, feeling his back crack.

Of course, this is the exact moment that someone appears in front of him and clears their throat politely. Scrambling into a more dignified position, he flails a little, feels his cheeks burn, and looks up.

He just had to make a fool of himself in front of Professor Sigsonn, whom he’d successfully avoided after this morning’s class. The man’s intelligent grey eyes are peering at him behind thick round glasses, a slight frown on his rotund and weathered face.

“Hello, Mr. Valtersen, I was hoping we could have a chat.”

Somehow, he doubts that sighing loudly or denying the man would a welcome reaction, so, suppressing a wince at the address, Isak sits up straighter and pushes a few of his books away.

The professor sits across from him, folds his hands on the table, looks briefly at the stack of books around them before returning his gaze to Isak who forces himself to not lower his.

“First, I want to say that I’m glad to see you back, and I’m happy that you’re dedicating yourself to making up for your absence.”

He pauses, lets out a sigh. Isak knows what’s coming – he’s not a complete idiot – but can’t bring himself to utter a word.

“That being said, you haven’t attended a single class in weeks, and as head of department, I’ve had a few of my colleagues voice their concerns about your sudden… disappearance. Actually, some of them have raised questions about more than that. I assume you’ve received their emails?”

He has. He’s received no less than six emails in less than a month from different professors. He hasn’t read a single one of them. Gulping painfully, he lowers his head in shame, aware of how familiar this scene feels.

Professor Sigsonn remains silent for a few minutes, probably observing him, trying to think of a way to explain that he’s going to fail Isak, because Isak failed him first.

“Isak, I’m not here to add more to what I’m guessing is an already full plate. You’re a brilliant student, know that this is not in question. But your grades have been steadily declining since December, you didn’t complete your internship, and you’ve missed over two weeks of lectures. I’m sure you understand that this is something we cannot ignore.”

Isak nods mutely, his throat tight and his legs feeling like jelly. Rooted on the spot, all he can do is listen and let the words hit, one after the other. His heart beating a loud, panicked rhythm in his ears.

“Do you have a medical condition, or family issues that require working around? Are there serious issues that you feel are endangering your academic career? I can refer you to counsellors if you think that could help.”

He raises his gaze again, briefly meeting the older man’s, a flash of hesitation making him pause.

“No sir.”

After a few more seconds of silence which have his anxiety spiking up to new heights, his professor speaks again. His tone is still gentle but there’s an added firmness to his words now. Professor Sigsonn looks unassuming, small in stature with an affable disposition, but he somehow manages to inspire respect and a certain sense of awe when he speaks.

“Alright. Well, it’s all up to you, ultimately. I suggest you send an email to your professors to see about making up for your missed classes. I also strongly advise you to sort out your priorities. As much as we would like to help, you have to decide whether you still want to pursue this Master course. And if you do, you have to be ready to put in the work necessary for that.”

With those words, the man stands up slowly, a tentative smile stretching his thin, pale lips.

“I wish you the best, Mr. Valtersen, have a good day.”

By the time Isak is able to function again enough to mutter a polite “thank you, sir”, the man has already walked off, leaving him in stunned silence. With slow, mechanical movements, he gathers his books, opens one at random and begins to read. He sees without seeing, words dancing in front of his eyes but not imprinting in his brain, still caught in the one-sided conversation he’s just had.

He thinks he’s been offered a second chance – he supposes it sounded like it at least – and yet, of all the emotions swirling in his head, shame and terror are the ones swimming on top, burying gratitude and relief under thick layers of familiar anxiety.

With an infinitesimal shake of his head, he redoubles his focus. And when it’s finally time to get to his next lecture, the migraine he’s nursing is enough to make him forget, if only for a few hours, the added pressure threatening to break the precarious balance he’d finally managed to build.

Even isn’t there at first when he gets home that evening and he debates settling in the living room to study, but decides against it. He needs some room for his thoughts, some space to be quiet and worry on his own without giving Even more cause for concern.

And when his flatmate finally makes it home, all he offers is a subdued smile and bland, idle conversation. Dinner is a silent affair. Even doesn’t offer to watch a movie – claiming fatigue and a lot of studying to do – and Isak doesn’t push. By the time the clock hits 9, they’re both in their room, the apartment plunged in complete silence. Isak reads, and reads some more, with the futile hope to ignore the cloying sensation that he’s fucked up – again.

The rest of the week goes by in pretty much the same fashion. He doubles his amount of studying, tries to pretend he doesn’t feel completely lost in his classes, replies to his professors’ e-mails, ignores lunch and has quiet dinners with Even.

The relief to find that none of his friends have tried to contact him is short-lived and quickly morphs into the certainty that despite all his claims, Even was wrong and Isak’s friends have indeed finally given up on him – not that he deserves anything less, a treacherous voice whispers in his ear.

His first instinct is to resign himself to his situation, rationalising that it’s nothing he hasn’t brought on himself and that it’s his penance for hurting those who tried caring about him, not matter how hard it was. But he’s made promises. To Even and his mother, implicitly. But most important, to his mamma.

As he gets home to an empty place on Friday afternoon, he makes a decision. Even has a date with his girlfriend that evening, but he made sure Isak would have enough food for dinner. Which is all the more confusing considering how distant he’s been this whole week. Then again, Isak isn’t the only one who’s facing copious amounts of revisions to go through. Even doesn’t owe him anything, certainly doesn’t owe him unending thoughtfulness. It probably shouldn’t stir that weird emotion that’s been burning in his chest lately when he thinks about Even, but it does, although he’s feeling too exhausted and anxious to properly pause and analyse it.

Too hungry to patiently save it for dinner, he wolfs down the pasta primavera in a matter of minutes before picking up his mobile phone. The amount of gratitude he’s feeling toward his flatmate at this very moment isn’t quantifiable, he thinks. He’s never done anything to deserve such kindness, patience and generosity, and he knows with absolute certainty that he’ll never be able to repay him.

What he can do, on the other hand, is take steps in the right direction, which is what he does then.

He picks up his phone.

  
  


  
  



End file.
